A  DARK 


LANTERN 


ELIZABETH  ROBINS 


A  DARK  LANTERN 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  MAGNETIC  NORTH 
THE  OPEN  QUESTION 
BELOW  THE  SALT 

GEORGE  MANDEVILLE'S 
HUSBAND 

THE  NEW  MOON 


A    DARK    LANTERN 


A  STORT  WITH  A   PROLOGUE 


BY 

ELIZABETH    ROBINS 

(C.  E.  RAIMOND) 

AUTHOR   OF    "THE    MAGNETIC   NORTH,"    "THE  OPEN   QUESTION," 
"BELOW  THE  SALT,"  ETC. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:   MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 


All  rifkts  reservtd 


COPYRIGHT,  1905, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  May,  1905.     Reprinted 
July,  twice,  September,  twice,  November,  1905 ;  February, 
September,  1906  ;  June,  1908  ;  April,  1913. 


Norton  oB  }3rrsa 

I.  8.  Coining  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  MM*.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
THE  PROLOGUE       


BOOK    II 
THE  BLACK-MAGIC  MAN 112 

BOOK  III 
VINCENT 194 

BOOK   IV 
GARTH  287 


2137942  ' 


BOOK  I 

THE  PROLOGUE 

CHAPTER  I 

UP  the  sharply  defined  path  of  red  baize,  from  curb-stone  to 
portico,  and  through  the  wide-set  doors  of  the  big  house  in  St. 
James's  Square,  a  stream  of  men  and  women  for  nearly  two 
hours  had  been  pouring. 

Fewer  were  arriving  now,  and  a  few  were  even  coming  out. 
Powdered  servants  were  summoning,  while  others  were  dis- 
missing carriages,  and  still  through  the  open  door  the  little  crowd 
of  huddled  street  folk  without  (ranked  on  either  side  the  red 
pathway)  could  watch  the  difficult  passage  through  the  crowded 
hall  of  the  latest  tiara,  and  grew  tired  of  studying  the  great  stair- 
case packed  with  a  congested  mass  of  humanity  unable  to  move 
up  or  down. 

Lady  Peterborough  was  one  of  the  small  group  of  great  Lon- 
don hostesses  whose  absence  is  held  to  make  a  difference  in 
the  season.  She  and  Lord  Peterborough  had  been  for  over  a 
year  in  India  and  the  Far  East.  This  was  the  first  party  given 
on  their  return. 

Royalty  had  often  before  honoured  Peterborough  House  with 
the  presence,  but  to-night  a  recently  married  Princess,  a  popular 
idol,  was  to  appear  with  her  husband  and  two  of  her  husband's 
brothers,  German  princelings  who  had  been  in  England  since 
the  wedding,  increasing  their  already  considerable  renown  as 
men  of  marked  accomplishment  and  'fatal  attractions.'  And 
this  was  also  the  evening,  as  everyone  knew,  upon  which  the 


2  A  DARK  LANTERN 

great  hostess  was  introducing  her  god-daughter,  about  whom 
nobody  knew  anything  except  that  she  was  not  yet  eighteen  and 
had  been  educated  abroad. 

A  sudden  commotion  at  the  door;  a  pressing  back;  a  flying 
whisper,  'The  Royalties  are  here,'  went  speeding  up  the  great 
stair,  acting  upon  that  compact,  inert  mass  as  a  powerful  solvent. 
Under  the  magic  of  the  phrase,  the  impossible  accomplished 
itself. 

Some  twenty  minutes  later  the  elder  of  the  two  unmarried 
Princes  was  being  presented  to  a  tall,  fair  girl,  the  seriousness 
in  whose  big,  wide-apart  eyes  was  contradicted  by  the  joyous 
mouth. 

'My  god-daughter,  your  Highness,'  Lady  Peterborough  had 
said  hurriedly,  and  turned  to  see  who  next,  after  her  Grace  of 
Lancaster,  should  be  allowed  a  word  with  the  Princess. 

The  foreigner,  hardly  looking,  bowed  with  German  military 
precision,  and  then  his  eye  suddenly  fixed.  'Oh,'  he  said,  'did 
I  see  you — weren't  you  at  the  last  Drawing-Room  ? ' 

'Yes,'  answered  the  girl. 

'Of  course  you  don't  remember  me " 

'I  do  remember  you.' 

'No!  where  was  I?' 

'You  stood  behind  the  Princess  Marie,  and  your  uniform 
was ' 

'So!' — which  he  pronounced  'Zo';  with  that  exception  his 
English  was  quite  unforeign — 'So!  you  did  notice,'  he  laughed. 
'Was  that  because  I  stared  so?' 

'Not  all  because  of  that,'  she  smiled  back,  'though  it  made 
me  more  nervous  than  ever.' 

'Were  you  nervous,  then?' 

'You  saw  that  I  was  more  nervous  than  anybody — that  was 
why  you '  she  hesitated. 

'Why  I  stared  so?'  he  asked,  amused. 

' why  you  laughed.     It  wasn't  very  nice  of  you.' 

'Upon  my  word,  I  didn't  guess  the  least  in  the  world  that  you 
were  nervous.  You  seemed  unusually  composed.' 

'Then  why  did  you  laugh?'  she  demanded. 

As  he  stood  silent  looking  at  her  and  still  smiling,  'Ah!' 
she  said  quite  low,  flushing  on  a  sudden 'Something  was 


A  DARK  LANTERN  3 

6 

wrong!  Of  course  I  thought  of  that.  But  it  was  too  late  to  help 
it  ...  and  I've  never  known  what  it  was.'  She  seemed  to  wait. 

'What  it  was?'  he  repeated. 

'Yes,  what  was  wrong.' 

'Will  you  dance?'  he  asked,  quickly  looking  round  as  the 
first  bars  of  a  waltz  sounded  from  the  ball-room. 

'No,  I  won't  dance.  Nor  laugh,  nor  speak,  nor  eat  ever 
again!'  she  said  tragi-comically. 

'What!  You  don't  mean  to  take  me  to  supper?'  He  leaned 
against  the  wall  and  contemplated  her.  While  one  of  the  suite, 
also  detached,  stood  near  talking  with  Bishop  Brailton,  the 
crowd  round  the  rest  of  the  royal  party — little  inner  circle  and 
larger  one  outside — all  moved  slowly  away  towards  the  small 
drawing-room  off  the  ball-room,  and  the  unfeatured  mob  flowed 
in  between. 

'It  was  something — something' — she  was  very  serious  now 
and  the  school-girl  look  was  gone,  but  school-girl  words  were 
on  her  lips — 'something  you  don't  like  to  tell  me.'  As  still  he 
made  no  answer:  'something  too  dreadful  to  put  into  words.' 

'Quite  too  shocking,'  he  assured  her. 

But  the  brutality  of  that  nerved  her.  'Nobody  else  seems  to 
have  noticed  that  I  did  anything  odd.' 

'Oh,  they  spare  your  feelings.'  She  glanced  up  at  him  half 
laughing,  half  dismayed.  Then,  gravely  recalling  other  testimony 
—'They  said  my  curtsey  was  all ' 

'Oh  yes,  that  was  all ' 

'And  I  didn't  get  tangled  up  in  my  train!' 

'N-no,'  he  said,  still  seeming  to  enjoy  some  malicious  remem- 
brance. 

'Which  was  it?'  she  said  uncertainly,  'my  feathers  or  my  hair 
that  was  wrong?' 

'Nothing  wrong  with  your  hair,'  he  said,  looking  at  it  in  such 
a  way  as  to  recall  her  from  that  wonderful  day  of  the  Drawing- 
Room  to  the  yet  more  vivid  present.  She  grew  a  little  confused 
under  his  bold  admiration,  but  making  a  clutch  at  self-possession: 

'Come  then,'  she  said,  seeing  that  the  royal  party  with  Lady 
Peterborough  and  a  favoured  few  had  disappeared  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  music, — 'after  all,  I  see  it  will  be  best  to  drown  the 
memory  of  that  Dra wing-Room.' 


4  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'I  shall  remember  it  always,'  he  whispered,  as  they  joined  the 
dancers. 

He  had  to  take  a  lady  of  high  degree  down  to  supper,  but 
audaciously  he  telegraphed  'be  sorry  for  me';  and  though  the 
young  debutante  smiled  back  radiant,  she  felt  the  occurrence  to 
be  in  the  nature  of  a  loss  almost  too  heavy  for  'seventeen  and 
a  bit '  to  bear. 

And  still  the  pain  of  it  was  a  thing  nearer  far  to  joy  than  any 
other  gladness  she  yet  had  known.  For  did  it  not  have  its  centre 
and  its  source  in  this  gay  and  gracious,  gently  mocking,  utterly 
beguiling  soldier,  who  smiled  your  heart  out  of  your  breast,  and 
left  in  its  place  a  strange  sharp  rapture  that  now  and  then,  as 
you  tested  its  edge,  took  the  breath  like  a  rapier  thrust — pricking 
you  to  a  sense  of  life,  beside  which  all  the  days  before  were  as 
dead,  and  coffined  and  without  memorial? 

The  night  wore  on  in  a  dream.  The  debutante  danced,  and 
laughed,  and  learned  through  one  avenue  and  another  that  no 
coming  out  for  'long  and  long'  had  been  so  brilliant.  Lady 
Peterborough  was  told  that  her  god-daughter  would  be  the  rage 

— 'She  has  a  something '  'She  is  apart '  'She  will  set 

a  new  fashion  in  beauty.'  And  all  the  while  the  little  school- 
girl, who  should  perhaps  have  been  tucked  up  in  bed,  was  thinking 
with  thumping  pulses,  'Does  he  like  my  hair?  Will  he  ever 
forget  whatever  the  dreadful  thing  was  at  the  Drawing-Room  ? 
Yes,  he  certainly  likes  my  hair Oh,  but  when  he  smiles!' 

He  danced  only  once  again  with  her,  and  at  the  cost  of  Bertie 
Amherst's  waltz,  too,  so  slow  had  this  Prince  Anton  of  Breitenlohe- 
Waldenstein  been  to  realize  how  all  the  men  were  asking  her 
'keep  one  for  me.' 

While  they  danced,  he  asked  her  if  she  was  to  be  at  the  State 
Concert.  And  he  looked  as  if  life  hung  upon  her  'yes.' 

She  was  coming?    Ah,  then  'At  the  Concert ' 

Was  it  a  great  swelling  roar  of  music  and  of  laughter,  that 
filled  her  ears  like  the  sea — no,  hush!  it  was  the  sound  of  her  own 
blood  beating  in  her  ears. 

'What  did  you  say?'  she  asked. 

'Say?' 

'Yes,  about  the  Concert.' 

'Why,  that  we  shall  meet.'    Then,  as  she  kept  looking  down 


A  DARK  LANTERN  5 

and  said  no  word:  'I  suppose  you  don't  care  about  that?'  Still 
the  eyelids  were  unlifted,  and  the  waltz  swayed  them  like  an 
outside  power  to  which  neither  in  the  least  contributed,  only 
lent  themselves  in  a  mood  of  rapturous  yielding.  'But  /  care,' 
he  whispered,  as  if  the  long  pause  had  not  been. 
And  at  the  end  he  only  said:  'Auf  Wiedersehen.' 

It  was  part  of  Kitty  Dereham's  prolonged  childishness  of 
mind,  that  she  who  fed  her  foolish  young  heart  on  poetry,  on 
Scott  and  Dumas  romance,  yet  did  not  for  several  days  wholly 
understand  what  the  thing  was  that  had  befallen  her.  She 
walked,  all  those  early  hours,  in  a  land  where  a  delicious  vague- 
ness reigned,  in  a  happy  freedom  from  all  need  to  verify,  forecast 
or  question.  It  was  enough  to  lower  the  eyelids  and  straightway 
see  his  face,  to  shut  the  ears  against  voices  round  her,  and  hear 
the  rich  eloquence,  the  all-sufficing  promise:  Auf  Wiedersehen. 

Three  days  and  nights  the  dream  hung  suspended  in  that 
golden  mist.  And  the  Concert  was  not  till  to-morrow. 

In  the  two  little  groups  chaperoned  by  Lady  Peterborough, 
having  tea  among  the  crowd  on  the  terrace  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, were  those  who,  tired  of  getting  patient  hosts  to  point 
out  great  legislators,  and  who,  even  with  other  intervening  balls 
that  might  have  blurred  remembrance,  yet  leaned  across  little 
tables  or  over  the  parapet,  above  the  river,  and  talked  of  the 
famous  night  of  the  coming  out. 

'Oh,  I  say!  It's  time  to  draw  a  veil  over  that  melancholy 
occasion,'  Bertie  Amherst  at  last  broke  in.  'You  lacerate  Miss 
Dereham's  feelings.  Look  here,  you  know,  I  can't  go  on  calling 
you  Miss  Dereham.' 

'Why  not?'  demanded  Katharine,  smiling. 

' need  I,  Aunt  Kate?'  He  appealed  to  Lady  Peterbor- 
ough. 

'Ask  Kitty,'  she  answered  promptly. 

'What  do  you  say?'  he  appealed.    'We're  kind  of  relations.' 

'I  never  knew  that.' 

'Yes,  ain't  we,  Aunt  Kate? — god-cousins.' 

'Of  course,  god-cousins.' 

'I  suppose  you  can  call  me  Katharine  then,'  said  the  girl 
after  an  instant's  reflection. 


6  A  DARK  LANTERN 

She  looked  up  surprised  when  they  all  laughed.  'I  don't 
know  why  you're  so  amused.  Nor  why  you  say  talking  about 
our  ball  would  lacerate  my  feelings.' 

'Why?    Because  it  makes  you  think  of  H.R.H.' 

She  knew  her  face  answered  in  swift  scarlet.  But  she  said 
steadily  enough:  'Anybody  would  think  we  could  only  boast  one 
Royal  Highness 

'There's  only  one  you'd  boast  of.' 

'  Oh,  and  which  is  that  ? ' 

'Why,  the  one  you  fell  in  love  with.' 

The  one  I  fell  in  love  with!  the  girl  echoed  to  herself. 

'There,  Miss  Dereham — there  is  the  member  for  Wickham,' 
and  Katharine,  fixing  her  big  startled  eyes  on  the  new  political 
light,  seemed  to  wink  at  the  refulgence.  Her  host  jumped  up 
and  brought  Mr.  Hastings  to  Lady  Peterborough.  In  two 
minutes,  that  gentleman  was  nearer  forgetting  his  great  public 
destiny  than  he  had  been  since  he  left  Eton — looking  into  Kitty 
Dereham 's  eyes. 

'And  so  you've  been  in  the  gallery?'  he  was  saying. 

'Yes,  in — in  the  gallery.'     (In  love!) 

'Could  you  follow?' 

'Follow?    Oh  yes!    No.  .  .  .    Follow  who?' 

'Why,  the  debate  on ' 

'Oh  no,  I  couldn't  follow  the  debate.'     (In  love?) 

'No  wonder!'  he  averred  indulgently.  'Beastly  place  the 
ladies'  gallery.' 

'I  didn't  mind  it  so  much.' 

'Not  the  grill?     Didn't  you  feel  it  an  insult  to  your  sex?' 

'I'm  afraid  I  forgot  to.     I've  heard  it's  the  proper  sentiment.' 

'It  must  have  bored  you  hideously,  if  you  couldn't  hear  and 
couldn't  see ' 

(In  love?}     'Oh,  but  I  did  see — tops  of  heads.     We  knew 

several  of  the  people  who  got  up  and  talked,  only  we  had  never 

.  studied  the  tops  of  them  before.     If  we  went  often,  we'd  be' — 

her  attention  wandered  .  .  .  (in  love!} — ' be  quite  well  acquainted 

with  the  tops — of  the  members'  heads,  I  mean.' 

'Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  So  that  if  your  acquaintance  with 
a  man  was  only  a  House  of  Commons  acquaintance,  and  you 
met  him  at  a  different  altitude ' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  7 

(The  one  I  fell  in  love  with!)  ' yes — I'd  have  to  stand  on 

a  chair  to  be  sure  it  was  the  man  I  thought  it  was.'  She  spoke 
breathlessly,  and  was  grateful  when  the  fabulously  clever  young 
member  laughed  obligingly  at  her  little  jest. 

'  I  should  like  to  feel  sure  that  under  any  and  all  circumstances 
you  will  remember  me' — he  took  off  his  hat  and  held  his  head 
down  for  her  to  see  the  thin  growth  of  fine  brown  hair  on  either 
side  of  a  parting  that  looked  twenty  years  older  than  his  age. 

On  the  way  home  Katharine  sat  so  silent  in  her  corner  of  the 
carriage,  that  twice  her  god-mother  glanced  sideways  at  the 
beautiful  little  face. 

'Humph!'  thought  the  astute  old  worldling,  'she  is  very  quiet. 
And  that  young  popinjay,  Hastings,  very  suddenly  finds  that 
after  all  he  may  have  a  little  time  to  dine  and  dance!  Humph! 
Well — if  his  blood  is  bad,  it's  very  distinguished.  They  say 
he'll  have  a  career,  too.  It  may  be  quite  as  well  this  comes  so 
soon.  I  don't  approve  of  the  modern  plan  of  late  marriages. 
Specially  for  Kitty — with  no  mother,  and  that  father.' 

In  love!  The  girl  sat  staring  at  the  dim  reflection  of  herself 
on  the  glass  in  front  of  the  coachman's  box,  but  with  no  sight 
in  her  big  childish  eyes.  That,  then,  was  the  meaning  of  these 
enchanted  days.  That  was  why  everything  in  life  was  trivial 
past  expression  save  the  State  Concert  and  the  meeting.  She 
had  been  half  asleep,  and  Bertie  Amherst  had  waked  her  with 
two  words: 

'In  love.' 

What  would  happen  auf  Wiedersehen?  And  this  she  asked 
and  answered  over  and  over  again.  With  slow  delicious  ap- 
proach, lingering,  making  the  most  of  every  trifle,  fashioning 
whole  dramas  out  of  each  question:  at  what  moment  would  he 
appear;  where  would  his  place  be;  and  where  hers?  What 
uniform  he  would  wear;  what  orders;  whether  he  would  have 
to  sit  by  his  cousin.  The  Princess,  wherever  she  might  be, 
would  observe  his  preoccupation.  She,  Katharine  Dereham, 
would  not  be  looking  in  his  direction  when  at  last  he  would 
catch  sight  of  her,  yet  mysteriously  she  would  plainly  see  the 
sudden  light  in  his  eyes;  and  know  how,  dumbly,  again  and 
again  he  was  appealing:  'Look  at  me!  Katharine!'  Ah!  It 
would  be  delicious — but  absolutely  impossible,  nevertheless — • 


8  A  DARK  LANTERN 

for  her  to  face  him  in  that  moment.  The  Princess  would  talk 
and  smile  in  vain;  the  handsome  head,  with  the  hair  brushed 
up  from  the  forehead  &  la  Russe,  would  turn  again  to  Katharine, 
beseeching  her.  And  still  under  some  sweet  necessity,  she 
would  look  at  everyone  and  anywhere  else.  The  Princess  at 
last  would  twit  him:  'You  are  not  listening — you  look  for  some- 
one?' Then  he  would  fence,  and  smooth  her  ruffled  feathers. 
Finally,  just  as  Katharine  would  be  thinking  that  with  safety 
she  might  look  at  the  back  of  his  head,  he  would  turn  sharply, 
his  eyes  catch  hers,  catch  and  hold  and — and — it  was  here  that 
quick  thrust  pierced  her  breast,  and  all  the  world  dissolved  in 
glancing  mist. 

In  love! 

It  was  like  this  then.  Heavens!  and  he  was  not  Anton  only, 
but  Prince  Anton!  Well,  what  then?  It  was  clear  to  her  in 
that  world  of  young  imagining,  where  barriers  exist  but  for 
gallant  breaking  down,  and  where  the  given  case  is  always  an 
exception — it  was  clear  that  the  big  foreign  soldier  was  not  a 
Prince  alone,  but  that  other  auguster  entity  that  men  call  Fate. 
#  *  *  *  *• 

The  Concert  night  was  come.  In  the  long  queue  they  waited; 
Lady  Peterborough;  his  lordship  in  the  modern  way,  a  little 
depressed  under  the  extinguisher  of  his  cocked  hat;  Bertie 
Amherst,  who  had  joined  them  at  the  last  moment,  very  smart 
in  his  guardsman's  uniform,  and  very  ready,  it  would  seem,  to 
make  eyes  at  Katharine.  She,  sitting  quite  silent  in  the  sharply 
broken  dusk  of  the  great  carriage,  looked  at  her  companions' 
faces  from  time  to  time,  by  the  sudden  flashing  in  of  electric 
light,  which  would  vanish  again  like  sheet  lightning,  as,  driving 
on,  they  left  that  lamp  behind  and  moved  a  little  nearer  to  the 
entrance  of  the  Palace. 

Bertie  was  chaffing  her  for  her  silence  and  preoccupation. 
The  girl  laughed  now  and  then,  but  at  far  other  thoughts,  hardly 
hearing  his  voice,  let  alone  his  words. 

She  sat  stiffly  in  her  corner  that  she  might  not  crush  her  chiffons 
and  her  flowers — sat  with  muscles  unconsciously  strained,  as 
if  to  help  the  horses  to  reach  the  door.  Oh,  how  slow  they 
were!  He  would  be  so  impatient.  He  would  be  thinking  she 
was  not  coming.  But  I  am!  I  am!  I'm  nearly  there! 


A  DARK  LANTERN 


She  had  afterwards  only  the  dimmest  recollection  of  the  going 
in,  a  vague  medley  of  lights  and  jewels  and  the  heavy  scent  of 
flowers — and  then  all  without  preparation,  with  none  of  those 
delicious  gradations  of  approach, — with  as  little  warning  as  a 
telegraph-boy  at  your  door,  there  was  Prince  Anton — occupied 
in  not  stepping  on  the  Princess  Marie's  gown.  He  did  look  up, 
he  clicked  his  heels  and  gave  a  jerky  little  bow,  a  little  hurried 
smile,  and  was  gone!  ...  on  to  those  seats  where  the  lesser 
Royalties  sat.  And  that  was  all.  She  could  not  even  see  the 
back  of  his  head. 

She  sat  in  her  place,  deaf,  waiting. 

Just  once  again  that  night  she  saw  him.  After  the  Concert 
was  over,  as  she  stood  behind  Lady  Peterborough  on  the  out- 
skirts of  a  little  group,  she  had  a  glimpse  of  him  at  the  far  side 
of  the  great  room,  laughing  at  something  a  highly-coloured, 
strange-looking  woman  was  saying. 

The  girl  stood  rooted,  staring  over  her  shoulder. 

'Come,  child,'  said  old  Lord  Peterborough,  drawing  her  hand 
under  his  arm. 

Two  days  later  she  read  in  the  Morning  Post,  that  Prince 
Anton  had  returned  to  Schloss  Waldenstein  in  the  Riesenge- 
birge. 


CHAPTER  II 

KATHARINE  was  not  to  see  the  disturber  of  her  peace  for 
nearly  three  years. 

He  was  twice  in  that  time  in  England,  but  on  the  first  occasion 
she  was  at  the  Peterboroughs'  Devonshire  place,  and  on  the 
second  in  her  bed  with  influenza. 

In  all  that  time,  if  the  Prussian  soldier  ever  left  his  dim  sentry- 
box  in  her  heart,  it  was  but  to  appear  'on  parade,'  as  it  were, 
before  the  keen  eye  of  the  reviewing  mind,  with  all  his  accoutre- 
ments burnished,  shining,  sword  clanking,  and  bold  eyes  chal- 
lenging the  world.  It  would  be  when  some  other  menaced  the 
integrity  of  his  kingdom  that  he  would  spring  out  of  his  hiding- 
place  and  stand  en  garde  between  Kitty  Dereham  and  other 
men.  With  the  precision  of  a  mannikin  in  a  Nuremberg  clock 
he  could  be  trusted  to  appear  whenever  the  hour  struck  (the 
hour  that  threatened  to  be  'hers'),  and  having  uttered  his  note 
of  warning  would  jerk  away  behind  the  little  door. 

These  apparitions,  and,  above  all,  these  'notes,'  that  rang 
with  the  remembered  music  of  a  man's  voice,  took  to  translating 
themselves  out  of  little  pictures  into  little  songs  ...  for  that 
was  how  life  crystallized  for  Katharine.  This  verse-making  was 
already  an  old  habit, '  dating  from  her  seventh  year,  when  her 
mother  had  laughed  and  cried  over  the  first  poem:  'On  the 
Sickening  Death  of  our  Beloved  Bullfinch.' 

Had  the  girl  lived  in  the  times  when  fine  ladies  strung  rhymes 
as  they  strummed  the  harp,  when  a  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Mon- 
tagu could  cap  verses  with  Pope  to  a  chorus  of  admiration  (or 
at  least  of  envy),  Kitty  Dereham  might  have  frankly  cultivated 
her  gift,  if  not  have  taken  in  it  unabashed  comfort  or  open 
credit. 

10 


A  DARK  LANTERN  n 

But  she  was  born  into  a  society  where  manifestation  of  any 
such  definite  talent  would  be  too  great  a  peculiarity  to  be  pleasant. 
A  less  sensitive  person  than  she  would  have  shrunk  from  the 
chaffing  patronage  of  men  and  women  whose  ideal  of  accom- 
plishment was  to  ride,  dance,  play  certain  games,  know  what 
to  wear,  what  to  say,  and  above  all  when  to  smile.  The  pre- 
vailing note  was  ridicule.  The  common  aim,  to  evade  its  shafts 
by  never  being  caught  serious.  A  world  where  nothing  was 
socially  'safe'  but  laughter. 

Kitty's  mother,  though  not  born  in  it,  had  grown  up  in  this 
atmosphere,  and  early  gave  the  child  her  cue.  This,  too,  with 
no  guess  of  how  strong  'the  artist'  was  in  the  young  soul,  no 
hint  of  the  long  struggle  to  come  between  the  Weltkind  and  the 
worldling;  little  knowledge  of  the  imperious  governance  of  an 
ideal  of  beauty;  fear  only  of  the  dimly  descried  truth  that  if 
her  child  were  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  different  from  those  with 
whom  her  lot  was  to  be  cast,  the  difference  would  lie  chiefly  in 
the  fact  that  the  poet  they  say  has  died  young  in  the  rest  of  us 
would  live  on  in  Katharine  Dereham  to  the  end. 

From  the  first,  however,  she  showed  a  decent  reticence  in  the 
matter.  So  far  as  her  own  small  performances  were  concerned, 
since  her  mother's  going  she  had  religiously  kept  them  to  her- 
self. She  felt  now,  it  would  be  as  easy  to  exhibit  to  the  world 
the  name  '  Anton '  written  on  her  heart,  as  have  shown  these 
dim  paraphrases  on  paper  of  that  original  and  all-luminous 
inscription.  These  verses  to  the  Nameless  One  became  for 
her  a  kind  of  secret  confessional  where  she  might  recite  her 
griefs  and  doubts,  and  set  forth  her  little  sins  and  get  absolution 
of  her  burden,  by  laying  it  down  in  orderly  lengths  on  paper. 
Or  again,  in  gayer  mood,  out  of  sheer  joy  in  her  faculty  of  vivid 
visualizing,  she  would  summon  the  shining  apparition  out  of 
the  vast  deep  of  absence,  and,  behold!  with  the  regular  tramp 
of  measured  verse,  the  foreign  soldier  would  come  marching, 
marching  to  the  sound  of  trumpets — or  of  penny  whistles,  what 
matter? — since  he  marched  right  gaily  and  faithfully  kept  her 
time. 

Lady  Peterborough  went  to  her  grave  without  suspecting 
Katharine  of  this  particular  failing;  but  the  arrant  old  heathen 
found  quite  enough  to  disapprove  and  laugh  at  in  the  romantic 


12  A  DARK  LANTERN 

little  girl,  whom  she  was  not  so  much  'bringing  out'  as  rigor- 
ously keeping  in.  The  poor  lady  had  her  disappointments  and 
her  claim  upon  commiseration.  Although  she  was  never  able 
to  pluck  up,  or  even  to  call  by  its  true  name,  the  root  of  Kath- 
arine's singularity,  she  was  vaguely  uneasy  at  the  girl's  elusive- 
ness.  Despite  Katharine's  gentleness,  she  was  distinctly  'diffi- 
cult,' and  her  steadfastness  to  some  alien  point  of  view — Heaven 
alone  knew  what  it  was  precisely! — roused  the  irritation  that 
comes  of  a  'difference'  not  boldly  formulated,  but  tirelessly 
maintained.  'She  has  no  true  sense  of  values,'  said  Lady  Peter- 
borough. Like  a  dweller  in  a  foreign  land  who  has  not  mastered 
the  currency,  she  would  offer  a  sovereign  where  a  shilling  would 
serve,  or  present  some  strange  coin  whose  very  superscription 
the  Peterborough  -eye  could  not  decipher.  The  girl,  in  her 
turn,  had  her  surprises.  She  was  too  young,  too  little  a  thinker, 
too  much  an  impressionist  to  formulate,  let  alone  to  analyze, 
the  Peterborough  standards.  It  was  only  with  certain  outward 
manifestations  that  she  at  all  concerned  herself,  such  as  the 
short  measure  meted  out  by  her  god-mother  to  intruders  or 
mere  bores;  her  merciless  ness  to  people  who  stirred  Katharine's 
pity.  The  girl  was  even  simple  enough  to  point  out  the  large 
latitude  Lady  Peterborough  was  ready  to  accord  to  people  of 
her  own  special  world,  who  practically  could  do  as  they  liked, 
being  who  they  were.  Katharine's  lack  of  sympathy  was  as 
evident  to  her  god-mother,  when  that  lady  engaged  in  the  con- 
genial occupation  of  crushing  the  socially  weak,  as  when  she 
amused  herself  by  condescending  to  Art  or  to  new-made 
wealth. 

But  in  more  important  ways  the  girl  failed  to  take  her  cue 
from  the  older  woman.  It  was  nearly  a  year  after  the  coming- 
out  party  that  she  reappeared  in  the  drawing-room  one  afternoon 
a  little  flushed,  asking: '  Oh,  have  the  Falconbridges  gone  already  ?' 
Ten  minutes  before,  at  his  request,  she  had  taken  Robert  Hastings 
to  the  library  to  look  for  a  book. 

'Yes,  the  Falconbridges  have  gone,'  answered  her  god- 
mother. 

'Bother!' 

'Why  bother?    You've  got  some  one  to  amuse  you.' 

'  No,  I  haven't.    There  isn't  a  man  in  London  so  interesting  as 


A  DARK  LANTERN  13 

Lord  Falconbridge.'  She  drummed  on  the  revolving  book-stand. 
'I  wanted  to  ask  him  about  the  meet  of  the  Coaching  Club.' 

'What  about  it?' 

'If  he's  in  earnest  about  having  me  on  the  box.' 

'Where  does  he  propose  to  put  his  wife?' 

'I'm  sure  I  don't  know.     I  forgot  her.' 

'It's  too  common  a  mistake.  It  never  does.  Have  you  forgot 
Robert  Hastings,  too?' 

'Oh,  he's  gone.' 

'What  did  he  have  to  say  for  himself?' 

Kitty  turned  away. 

Lady  Peterborough  put  up  her  glass.     'Did  he ' 

'Yes,'  the  girl  interrupted.  Then  hurriedly:  'Of  course  I  said 
no.  Such  a  silly  idea' — and  she  went  out. 

What  did  the  child  want?  Was  it,  after  all,  Bertie?  Lord 
Peterborough's  nephew  (and  next  after  an  invalid  and  childless 
brother,  his  heir)  had  not  been  supposed  to  be  in  the  running, 
having  already  pledged  himself  at  the  time  of  Kitty's  appear- 
ance on  the  scene.  But  in  two  weeks  he  had  broken  his  engage- 
ment, to  the  great  scandal  of  'everybody,'  and  declared  openly 
for  Kitty. 

This  had  all  happened  months  before,  but  throwing  over  the 
other  girl  had  hitherto  availed  him  so  little  that  public  opinion 
had  been  appeased.  And  he  was  a  delightful  person,  was  Bertie 

— perhaps  after  all The  old  woman  sat  and  cogitated, 

but  with  the  baffled  feeling  that  she  had  never  fathomed  the 
girl.  And  yet  Kitty  seemed  so  simple.  What  did  she  want? 
Thank  heaven  she  had  no  fads  to  stand  between  her  and  suitable 
arrangements,  no  crazy  modern  ideal  of  emancipation  or  phi- 
lanthropy, no  yearning  to  bind  books  or  to  bind  wounds  or  to 
examine  drains.  Lady  Peterborough  had  even  been  able  to 
laugh  her  out  of  certain  'Popish  superstitions'  that  she  had 
brought  with  her  out  of  France.  It  was  reassuring  that  she 
had  manifested  a  wholly  healthy  enjoyment  in  her  success, 
played  and  dined  and  danced,  smiled  away  her  conquests,  and 
waited.  For  what?  A  question  often  in  Lady  Peterborough's 
mind.  She  had  times  of  fearing  an  infatuation  for  Lord  Falcon- 
bridge.  Women — girls  too — had  gone  that  way.  For  he  was 
a  brilliant  being,  brilliant  with  the  triple  *nlendour  of  the  great 


I4  A  DARK  LANTERN 

noble,  the  politician  early  in  life  effective  in  public  affairs,  the 
man  of  fastidious  taste  in  Art  and  Letters.  Notoriously  in- 
different to  his  wife,  he  had  since  his  marriage,  only  four  years 
before,  had  at  least  one  liaison  that  the  world  knew  of.  The 
moment  came  when  Lady  Peterborough  allowed  Kitty  to  hear 
of  'that  affair';  watched  with  satisfaction  and  much  misinter- 
preted the  shrinking  of  the  girl;  even  congratulated  herself  on 
the  timeliness  of  the  disillusionment,  thinking  it  only  Falconbridge 
who  suffered  in  her  god-daughter's  esteem. 

It  was  the  sort  of  occasion  that  revealed  the  girl's  ignorance 
of  the  undercurrents  sweeping  through  the  stream  she  floated 
on.  Lady  Peterborough's  opinion  of  her  god-daughter  was 
not  enhanced  by  the  conversation.  Surely  it  must  be  infatua- 
tion for  Falconbridge  that  could  make  any  creature  so  blind. 
Of  course,  a  young  girl  should  seem  innocent  of  such  knowledge, 
but  to  be  innocent — what  was  it  but  to  be  a  fool?  When  she 
had  at  last  made  plain  that  people  had  given  up  trying  to  get 
Falconbridge  to  stay  at  their  houses,  unless  Captain  Waring's 
charming  little  wife  were  of  the  party,  Kitty  exclaimed  on  a  note 
of  stark  wonder: 

'And  you  do  it,  too!' 

'Do  what?' 

'You  asked  her  to  Devon  Court.' 

'Naturally.  The  Falconbridges  and  Peterboroughs  have 
always  been  friends.' 

'And  you  blame  people,  blame  me,  for  forgetting  .  .  .  Lady 
Falconbridge.' 

'It's  a  thing  I  never  do  myself — the  answer  came  with  a 
self-righteous  ring;  'I  always  include  her.' 

Kitty  got  up  with  locked  fingers.     'What  must  it  be  like!' 

'What!' 

'To  be  Lady  Falconbridge.' 

'A  good  many  girls  have  wasted  valuable  time  wondering.' 
The  old  woman  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  flushed  childish  face. 

'Poor  soul!'  breathed  Kitty. 

'Don't  make  any  mistake,  it's  the  wife  who  has  the  best  of 
it  in  the  end.  Remember  that.  It's  the  wife  who  can  afford 
to  wait.  The  other  woman's  day  is  bound  to  go;  the  wife's  is 
just  as  sure  to  come.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  15 

But  the  girl  was  as  little  sustained  by  the  thought  of  an  ultimate 
justice,  as  it  might  be  the  Countess  of  Falconbridge  herself. 

'To  be  "included"! — along  with  Mrs.  Waring.  And  every- 
body, you  say,  knowing  I' 

'It  wouldn't  help  matters  to  leave  Lady  Falconbridge  out.' 
The  girl  turned  suddenly.  'Now,  Kitty,  you  are  going  to  be 
tiresome.  You  are  going  to  say,  "leave  the  Waring  woman 
out.'" 

'I  was  going  to  ask  why  not  leave  Lord  Falconbridge  out?' 

Lady  Peterborough  merely  smiled.  There  was  a  good  deal 
in  her  face  at  such  a  moment.  Kitty  was  easier  under  her  frown 
— certainly  when  she  smiled  in  that  way  she  was  rather  awful. 
The  girl  turned  from  her  with  a  feeling  of  sickness,  but  no  sense 
of  being  unanswered. 

They  admitted  such  horrors — condoned,  even  smiled  upon, 
encouraged  them.  The  world  rocked.  She  tried  to  steady  her- 
self with  unflinching  eyes  wide  to  the  shame  of  it.  Life  was 
like  this,  then.  For  people  who  were  called  'the  best,'  called, 
with  high  significance,  'us,'  who  were  lifted  above  the  undis- 
tinguished herd,  this  was  what  life  sometimes  brought,  and  what 
'we'  could  be  induced  to  accept. 

'No,  no!  A  shuddering  blackness  fell.  Flinging  out  hands 
that  groped  in  the  rocking  dark,  she  found  a  hand  that  steadied 
her — it  drew  the  cloud  away,  and,  behold!  a  figure  standing  in 
sudden  sunlight,  smiling  reassurance.  Ah,  yes.  There  were 
men  not  merely  of  noble  house,  but  of  princely  heart. 

The  glamour  of  youth  and  of  poetic  imagining  had  veiled 
from  Katharine's  beauty-loving  eyes  much  of  the  ugliness  of 
the  life  about  her.  Not  all  at  once,  not  for  years,  did  the  trans- 
figuring light  of  Romance  die  out,  and  fall  upon  the  dark — 
and  even  then  only  to  be  steadfastly  rekindled. 

She  was  not  one  of  the  girls  who  have  to  be  forbidden  books 
considered  to  be  'not  quite  jeune  fille':  a  few  pages  of  such 
works  told  her  that  these  were  not — or  not  yet — for  her.  She 
and  her  mother  had  together  read  much  romance  in  poetry  and 
prose,  and  when  the  girl  found  herself  alone  she  clung  the  more 
to  'the  kind  of  thing  my  mother  liked' — feeling  that  so  she  found 
again  and  might  hold  fast  to  the  dear  hand.  The  'Idylls  of  the 
King'  led  her  back  to  Malory.  In  that  book  of  delight  she  slaked 


iC  A  DARK  LANTERN 

her  thirst  for  things  chivalrous  and  fair;  and  coming  down  out 
of  her  heights,  thought  herself  practical  in  the  outward  expression 
of  her  tastes,  when  she  looked  into  heraldry.  That  study  proved 
full  of  just  the  kind  of  interest  that  appealed  to  her.  In  the 
Peterborough  library  the  girl  grew  quietly  wise  in  matters  whose 
waning  significance  to  the  world  mattered  nothing.  It  was, 
however,  a  delightful  surprise  to  find  that  her  god-father  knew 
about  these  things.  What  did  he  not  know  about,  this  kindly, 
whimsical  old  man,  who  seemed  so  entirely  content  to  let  his 
wife  take  the  lead  in  everything,  and  who  yet  held  quietly  on  his 
way,  a  way  so  remote  from  hers  that  you  would  never  so  much 
as  hear  of  it,  except  by  chance?  Occasion  would  discover  him 
on  the  expert's  side  of  a  question,  but  hardly  by  choice  it  would 
seem,  seldom  with  any  stress,  never  with  undue  emphasis;  but 
few  the  questions  of  life  or  learning  that  took  him  unaware. 
You  would  know  him  for  years,  and  never  hear  him  hint  at 
numismatic  knowledge;  but  the  moment  come  when  authorities 
differed,  he  would  speak  the  illuminating  word.  You  would 
never  have  heard  him  mention  Persian  literature;  till  one  night 
at  dinner  a  discussion  would  arise  between  two  Omarites  about 
some  Fitzgerald  rendering,  and  Lord  Peterborough  would  write 
the  original  line  in  character  on  the  tablecloth  to  prove  the  case 
of  the  sounder  disputant. 

And  so  among  other  things  he  was  a  Herald!  Kitty  was 
enchanted,  though  he  did  spoil  it  by  saying  every  man  of  leisure 
was  more  or  less,  and  that  it  was  a  form  of  knowledge  'merely 
curious.'  To  the  girl  these  symbols  of  bygone  achievement  in 
field  or  bower,  love  or  war,  meant  'History'  of  the  sort  that 
appealed  most  to  her  imagination,  concerning  itself  as  it  did, 
not  in  the  large  way,  with  popular  movements  or  the  effect  of 
laws,  cr  even  with  the  policies  of  Kings,  but  modestly  though 
fervently  with  the  fortunes  of  private  families. 

On  those  delightful  occasions,  all  too  rare,  when  Kitty  went 
driving  about  the  London  streets  with  only  her  god-father,  he 
would  lend  himself  to  the  girl's  preoccupation  with  the  ancient 
and  often  childish  hieroglyphs  that  men  of  old  had  stamped 
upon  their  names.  In  a  pause  he  would  suddenly  say,  to  her 
obvious  delight:  'Suppose  we  should  overtake  a  knight  riding 
along  here,  and  see  on  his  shield ' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  17 

'No,'  corrected  Kitty,  who  herself  had  invented  this  game, 
'we'd  see  his  arms  first  of  all,  on  the  tabards  of  his  pursui- 
vants  ' 

'No,  we  are  before  the  days  of  tabards,  before  the  jupon, 
even — but  when  we  catch  up  with  this  knight  we  see  his  shield 
is:  Argent,  a  human  Heart,  gules,  proper;  on  a  chief  azure,  six 
Lioncels  of  the  Field ' 

'No,  six  Mullets,  not  six  Lioncels.     Mullets,  Mullets!' 

He  laughed;  he  had  thought  to  catch  her. 

'You  know  the  knight?' 

'Of  course — one  of  my  particular  friends,  Sir  James  Douglas.' 

'Then  perhaps  you'll  tell  me  where  he's  going.' 

'He  is  on  his  way  to  the  Holy  Land,  and  he's  carrying  the 
royal  heart  of  Robert  Bruce  to  bury  at  Jerusalem.' 

'God  speed,'  the  old  man  saluted,  as  if  the  knight  rode  by, 
'and  a  safe  return.' 

'We  won't  see  him  again,'  said  the  girl.  'He'll  fall  in  Anda- 
lusia, fighting  the  Saracens.'  She  turned  her  head  a  little* 
'Good-bye,  James  Douglas!'  And  for  the  hundredth  time 
after  some  such  trial  of  her  knowledge  or  of  his,  'Isn't  it  curi- 
ous,' she  said,  'to  think  that  if  he  should  really  come  riding  along, 
of  all  the  people  in  the  street  probably  only  you  and  I  would 
know  him.' 

'Unless  there  were  Douglases  about.' 

'Even  they  might  be  in  doubt — they'd  think  at  first  it  must 
be  one  of  them,  but  they'd  say,  "Where  is  the  crown?"' 

'Very  like,'  he  humoured  her  fancy.  'They'd  forget  that 
the  man  who  won  it  never  wore  it.' 

'  Now  there's  a  lady  coming Oh,  no,  it  was  as  we  crossed 

Oxford  Street.  Oxford  Street  was  there,  wasn't  it,  a  long  while 
ago?' 

'Oxford  Street — Watling  Street — saw  the  Roman  Eagles.' 

'Well,  these  weren't  Romans  that  I  saw.  It  was  a  very 
great  English  lady  riding  with  her  knights  and  esquires.  Her 
arms  were:  "Azure,  three  Fleurs-de-lys,  in  pale,  or,  between 

two  Fla "'  The  girl  paused  suddenly,  and  then  flung  up 

her  hand  with  a  joyous  little  hailing  action  in  the  direction  of 
a  hansom  blocked  for  an  instant  in  the  crowded  Piccadilly 
traffic. 


i8  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Lord  Peterborough  stuck  his  glass  in  his  eye,  and  scrutinized 
the  good-looking  man  with  an  overdressed  woman  at  his  side, 
the  two  so  deep  in  talk  they  were  oblivious  to  the  world.  'Well,' 
said  Lord  Peterborough  imperturbably,  'go  on  with  the  lady's 
blazonry ' 

Kitty,  still  turned  to  face  the  hansom,  was  smiling  and  lifting 
her  hand. 

'It's  father,  don't  you  see?'  A  slowly  moving  brougham 
shut  out  the  hansom  for  a  moment.  When  visible  again,  it 
was  seen  to  be  in  the  act  of  attempting  to  cross  behind  the  Peter- 
borough carriage  into  Sackville  Street.  But  the  policeman 
held  up  his  hand.  The  press  was  great  on  that  side. 

'Oh,  I  wish  he'd  look  through  the  window.  Who  is  it  he  is 
with?' 

'Hush!'  said  Lord  Peterborough,  for  the  lady  was  sitting  on 
that  side. 

'Do  you  know  her?'  asked  Kitty. 

'No.  Don't  stare  like  that.  It's  only  owls  that  can  look 
over  their  spines  without  dislocation.' 

The  lady  turned  her  head,  and  the  underscored  eyes  fell  upon 
the  girl  in  the  carriage.  She  must  have  said  something.  The 
man,  who  had  been  watching  her  face  intently  while  he  talked, 
glanced  past  her  now,  through  the  window:  seemed  to  pause 
an  instant  in  his  fluent  speech,  and  then,  without  the  quiver  of 
a  lash,  went  on  talking,  as  he  dropped  carelessly  back  out  of 
sight  in  his  corner. 

'Father!'  Kitty  had  said,  signalling  over  the  back  of  the 
carriage.  Above  the  lady's  head  a  man's  arm  was  raised.  It 
pushed  up  the  trap-door.  Some  direction  was  given.  In  the 
dissolving  crush,  the  cabby  turned  his  horse  and  drove  off  in 
the  opposite  direction. 

'How  funny  he  didn't  recognise  us!' 

'Who?' 

'Why,  father,  of  course.' 

'You  think  it  was ?' 

'Think?    Why,  didn't  you  see?' 

'I  thought  it  was  someone  rather  like  him.' 

'Oh  no,  it  was  father.  Fancy  his  having  got  a  new  friend!' 
she  exclaimed  with  animation — 'a  lady,  too.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  19 

'Well,  go  on.     What  was  the  lady's  blazonry?' 
'I  shall  have  to  ask  my  father,'  she  said,  smiling. 
*  *  *  *  * 

When  on  Sunday  she  did  so,  it  was  to  learn  that  he  had  been 
at  Aldershot  all  Friday  and  Saturday.  No,  the  circumstance 
was  not  so  curious.  There  was  another  man  in  London  for 
whom  he  was  sometimes  mistaken. 

Katharine's  view  of  her  father's  life  was  not  very  clear.  It 
is  notorious  that  the  average  young  person  accepts  his  (even 
more  her)  parents  as  he  accepts  the  first  landscape  that  greets 
his  eyes.  It  is  his  only  possible  conception  of  the  world. 

Even  Lady  Peterborough's  adoring  affection  for  the  girl's 
dead  mother,  the  one  great  devotion  in  a  singularly  loveless 
life,  would  not  have  secured  Katharine's  being  installed  as 
daughter  of  the  house,  except  upon  clear  understanding  that 
Colonel  Dereham  was  not  to  appear  there  unless  expressly 
bidden.  Katharine  knew  from  the  first  that  her  father  was  not 
appreciated  by  her  god-mother,  and  that  even  her  sworn  ally, 
Lord  Peterborough,  regarded  Colonel  Dereham  with  a  whim- 
sical tolerance,  that  was  for  long,  the  heaviest  cross  the  girl's 
proud  heart  was  called  upon  to  bear.  In  her  thoughts  of  her 
father  she  conceived  of  him  always  as  a  gallant  soldier  too  modest 
to  make  capital  of  his  splendid  services,  too  dignified  to  com- 
plain of  being  shelved.  She  saw  that  he  spent  his  time  when 
at  home  (in  the  little  house  he  had  taken  in  Hill  Street)  in  smok- 
ing and  reading  French  novels,  and  when  he  wasn't  at  home 
he  seemed  always  to  have  been  at  the  Club  or  'taking  a  walk.' 
Katharine  felt  it  a  grey  existence,  and  wondered  humbly  at  his 
uncomplaining  acceptance  of  it — 'for  her  sake,'  as  he  some- 
times explained. 

His  forbearance  with  the  Peterborough  attitude  towards 
himself  she  found  especially  beautiful  and  noble.  In  spite  of 
her  mother's  dying  wish,  the  girl  offered,  again  and  again,  to 
leave  Peterborough  House  and  come  to  live  with  her  father. 
He  opposed  the  idea  with  an  energy  he  seldom  exhibited  about 
anything,  all  of  course  a  part  of  his  unselfishness. 

During  Katharine's  schooldays  at  Auteuil,  while  she  saw 
the  Peterboroughs  regularly  two  or  three  times  a  year,  and 


20  A  DARK  LANTERN 

spent  all  her  holidays  with  them  in  Devon  or  in  Sutherland- 
shire,  neither  she,  nor  anyone  she  knew,  ever  saw  Colonel  Dere- 
ham,  who  was  all  that  time  in  India.  But  the  name  of  father 
stirred  her  deepest  loyalty,  and  she  could  easily  have  made  a 
case  of  conscience  out  of  Lady  Peterborough's  perversity  in 
regard  to  him,  would  rather  have  enjoyed  making  her  sacrifice 
of  Peterborough  House  and  everything  it  meant,  to  be  all  in  all 
to  her  'poor  lonely  father.' 

Her  poor  lonely  father  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  as  little  poor 
as  lonely,  and  lived  a  life  so  entirely  to  his  taste  (albeit  not  in 
the  full  light  of  day)  that  nothing  would  so  have  disconcerted 
him  as  Katharine's  constant  companionship.  In  his  gratitude 
to  his  dead  wife's  friend  for  taking  his  daughter  off  his  hands, 
he  quite  forgave  the  implied  criticism  of  himself.  Problem 
enough  to  know  what  to  do  with  his  only  child  during  the  Peter- 
boroughs'  annual  visit  to  Marienbad.  For  years  Katharine 
marvelled  that  this  time  'alone  together,'  always  looked  forward 
to,  and  built  about  with  fair  resolutions,  should  be  so  barren  of 
comfort  or  reward. 

Stupid  of  her,  this,  for  she  had  a  weekly  opportunity  of  en- 
lightenment. In  spite  of  recurrent  opposition  from  Lady  Peter- 
borough, the  girl  made  a  fetich  of  dining  with  her  father  upon 
every  Sunday  night  that  found  them  both  in  town.  Vain  for 
him  nobly  to  propose  to  let  her  off  this  time;  to  give  the  servants 
their  Sunday  evening.  'Let  them  have  Saturday  .  .  .  any 
evening  but  ours,'  Katharine  would  say,  and  blithely  set  herself 
to  bring  some  cheer  into  her  father's  life.  It  was  notable  that 
Sunday  evening  found  both  of  them  more  cheerful  than  it  left 
them.  And  still  the  stupid  Katharine  persevered.  'A  young 
girl — at  least  a  girl  like  me,  isn't  enough  company  for  an  ex- 
perienced man  like  my  father,'  she  decided. 

'Why  don't  we  sometimes  ask  people  to  dine  on  Sundays?' 

'Oh-a — I  hadn't  considered  it.'    And  he  never  did. 

Another  time:  'How  late  you  are,  father  dear.  I've  been 
wailing  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  I  should  think  the  dinner 
is  quite ' 

'Sorry,  my  dear.  I  couldn't  get  back  sooner.  You  know 

what  Sunday  trains  are '  he  stopped  on  his  way  into  the 

dining-room  to  open  a  telegram. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  21 

'Oh,  then  you've  been  in  the  country.' 

'Country?  Yes,  in  the  country.'  He  read  the  message 
again,  and  reflectively  he  tore  it  into  small  pieces  before  he  sat 
down.  He  asked  about  the  garden-party  and  the  Castleton 
wedding.  While  they  were  at  dessert  the  bell  rang,  and  with- 
out waiting  for  a  bidding,  Captain  Vance  came  in.  He  was 
one  of  the  few  people  Katharine  ever  saw  at  her  father's,  and 
it  had  not  been  the  Captain  she  had  in  her  mind  when  she  sug- 
gested asking  someone  to  dine.  She  had  wondered  at  the 
intimacy  between  the  two,  Vance  being  a  dull  man  with  a  sharp 
temper  and  a  fiery  face,  who  drank  a  great  deal  of  brandy,  and 
domineered  over  his  brother-in-arms.  Katharine  considered 
that  her  father  treated  him  with  an  extraordinary  forbearance. 
Her  own  was  plainly  taxed.  When  Colonel  Dereham  remon- 
strated with  her  for  her  lack  of  cordiality,  she  spoke  her  mind 
about  the  Captain. 

'Oh,  manners!'  her  father  had  said  in  his  indulgent  way. 
'Manners  aren't  everything,'  which  was  handsome  as  coming 
from  a  man  whose  own  were  singularly  charming.  'Vance  is 
a  good  sort.  He  and  his  people  were  very  kind  to  me,  out  in 
India,  the  year  I  had  the  fever ' 

And  the  manners  that  were  amended  were  Katharine's  own. 

On  this  occasion  the  good  sort  drank  rather  more  than  usual. 
'He  makes  my  father  do  it  too,'  thought  the  girl,  with  her  first 
sick  misgiving  in  that  direction. 

Her  slight  attention  to  their  conversation  about  somebody's 
unfair  promotion  was  suddenly  heightened  by  Vance's  demand- 
ing in  a  truculent  tone:  'Wasn't  that  exactly  what  I  told  you 
in  Victoria  Street  this  afternoon  ? ' 

'Why,  you  couldn't— he  was  in  the  country,'  said  the  girl. 

Her  father  stared  an  instant,  and  then:  'Oh — I  came  back 
this  morning.  But  I  was  late — had  several  engagements  to  fit 
in.  .  .  .' 

It  was  the  kind  of  little  incident  that  was  always  happening, 
and  that  yet  always  took  the  girl  by  surprise. 

It  has  been  intimated  that  in  certain  ways  Kitty  was  an  un- 
commonly unperceptive  person — unteachable  even.  Certain  of 
her  views  she  would  not  without  a  struggle  submit  to  the  cor- 
rective hand  of  experience.  Her  father  was  forgetful. 


22  A  DARK  LANTERN 

In  spite  of  her  perplexed  effort  at  readjustment,  she  was  at 
first  bewildered,  and  later  amused,  at  the  superficial  knowledge 
of  French  character  that  led  English  people  *o  be  surprised  at 
finding  that  a  girl  brought  up  in  France  should  entertain  an 
innocent  reverence  for  truth. 

In  discussing  her  difficulties  on  this  head  with  Lord  Peter- 
borough, she  found  satisfaction  in  his  theory  that  it  was  just 
because  she  had  imagination  of  the  rarer  kind,  that  she  was 
less  tempted  to  misuse  it  in  the  common  way.  For  her  god- 
father had  stumbled  on  the  fact  that  Kitty  wrote  verses : 

'It's  all  right,  little  girl,  I  won't  tell  anyone.  Come,  cheer  up. 
Let's  see  what  they're  like.' 

She  shut  the  sheet  of  paper  in  a  book.  'Oh  I  couldn't — 
simply  couldn't.' 

'Oh  yes  you  can.'  But  as  she  still  sat  grasping  the  closed 
book  with  such  determined  hands  that  her  knuckles  showed 
white  under  the  skin,  her  old  friend  persisted,  'It's  all  right  to 
show  me.  Shall  I  tell  you  why?'  She  looked  up.  He  was 
smiling  in  that  whimsical  way  of  his,  but  he  lowered  his  voice 
to  a  kind  of  conspirator's  pitch.  'Do  you  want  to  know  why?' 
She  nodded.  He  looked  all  round  the  room,  still  smiling,  but 
as  if  to  make  sure  they  were  really  alone,  and  in  a  whisper  he 
said:  'I've  done  it  myself. ' 

'No.' 

'Yes.' 

'Does  she  know?' 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  comic  air  of  terror. 

'You  won't  tell  her  about  my — my  .  .  .   '  faltered  Kitty. 

'No,'  he  said,  'not  unless  you  betray  me.  If  you  did  that  I'd 
be  capable  of  anything.' 

'Where  do  you  hide  .  .  .  what  you  do?'  He  motioned  with 
his  fine  head  towards  a  brass-bound  bureau.  'You'll  show 
me?'  she  asked. 

'Should  you  like  me  to?' 

'Awfully.  When  do  you  do  it?'  whispered  Kitty,  coming 
nearer. 

'A — a — I  don't  do  it  much  now.' 

'Oh.'     She  paused  disappointed. 

'I'm  too  old,'  he  hastened  to  explain  —  'and  too  easily  scared.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  33 

'  But  you  used  to  ? ' 

'Oh,  for  years.' 

'May  I  see  them  now?' 

'They  won't  interest  you,  my  dear.  They're  merely  aca- 
demic.' Then  she  knew  he  had  recalled  the  sins  of  his  youth 
to  put  her  at  her  ease.  But  it  turned  out  a  great  comfort  to 
have  told  him.  For  one  thing  he  never,  by  so  much  as  a  hint, 
seemed  to  read  anything  autobiographic  in  her  effusions — 
discussed  them  upon  such  purely  impersonal  ground,  that  the 
girl  lost  her  first  sense  of  agonized  shyness,  and  even  came  to 
think  of  these  things  of  hers  as  quite  unprompted  by  any  actual 
experience. 

He  agreed  it  was  best  not  to  show  them  to  anyone  else,  not 
even  to  dear  Blanche,  who  was  her  greatest  girl  friend, — and 
yet  Lord  Peterborough  liked  some  of  them,  he  said.  He 
certainly  gave  himself  the  trouble  to  take  them  with  sufficient 
seriousness  to  point  out  blemishes,  and  to  instruct  the  young 
versifier  in  certain  rules  of  rhetoric  and  prosody.  They  spoke 
of  Katharine's  productions  as:  'Our  Guilty  Secret.' 


CHAPTER  IH 

AFTER  wintering  on  the  Riviera,  the  Peterboroughs  went  to 
Rome  in  the  spring  of  the  year  that  Kitty  was  nineteen.  There, 
at  the  house  of  the  Principessa  Lucchese,  the  girl  met  one 
afternoon  the  little  Grafin  von  Hartung,  who  was  a  distant 
cousin  of  Prince  Anton  of  Breitenlohe  Waldenstein,  and  knew 
him  '  Oh,  very  well  indeed,'  she  said.  Like  the  rest  of  the  Roman 
world,  she  had  been  looking  forward  to  seeing  him  here  after 
Easter.  And  now  this  news — oh!  it  was  too  exciting.  What, 
Miss  Dereham  had  not  heard?  Well,  he  was  anticipating 
his  visit  by  at  least  five  days — something  evidently  afoot,  for 
he  was  coming  that  very  afternoon  upon  the  summons,  rumour 
said,  of  a  certain  great  lady.  Of  course  Miss  Dereham  had 
heard.  No?  not  who  the  latest  victim  was?  It  was  plain 
the  little  Grafin  herself  had  come  under  the  spell,  but  her  role 
was  that  of  the  shocked  chronicler.  She  gave  spirited  accounts 
of  the  Prince's  more  recent  exploits — accounts  that,  touching 
with  some  frankness  upon  love-stricken  ladies,  Kitty  as  frankly 
elicited  as  she  secretly  shrank  from,  dreading  the  point  of  each 
scene  in  the  story,  as  if  it  had  been  a  rapier  playing  about  a  vital 
part.  'But  people  seem  ready  to  forgive  Anton  anything,'  his 
cousin  ended,  smiling. 

'If  you  see  him  soon ' 

'I'm  quite  sure  to — to-morrow  I  should  think.' 

Oh,  happy  little  Grafin!  'Well,  tell  him,'  Kitty  said  at  part- 
ing, 'tell  him  that  the  girl  he  laughed  at,  at  the  Drawing-Room 
in  London  three  years  ago,  has  not  forgiven  him.' 

The  papers  the  next  morning  announced  the  Prince's  arrival. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  wherever  she  went,  Kitty's  one 
thought  was:  'Will  it  be  here,  or  here,  that  we  shall  meet?'  The 

24 


A  DARK  LANTERN  25 

very  stones  in  the  streets,  that  to  other  ears  said,  Virgil,  Cicero, 
Caesar,  cried  '  Anton ! '  the  length  and  breadth  of  Rome.  Where- 
ever  she  went,  whatever  said  or  did,  every  sense  was  concen- 
trated upon  recognition.  'Shall  I  find  him  here,  driving  on 
the  Pincio?  Small  chance  of  his  being  in  St.  Peter's!  Does 
he  ever  fill  a  vacant  hour  in  a  gallery?  Or  is  he  killing  time  at 
the  Grafin's  .  .  .  until  I  come?  If  nowhere  else,  I'll  find  him 
at  the  Quirinal  Ball.' 

But  at  none  of  these  places  did  they  meet.  At  the  first  even- 
ing party  given  by  the  Principessa  Lucchese,  after  the  Prince's 
arrival,  suddenly  there  he  was.  Katharine  looked  at  him  with 
eyes  almost  unbelieving.  Was  this  he?  In  some  strange  way 
it  was  not.  The  man  seemed  unaccountably  less  real  stand- 
ing before  her,  in  his  habit  as  he  lived,  than  he  had  been,  march- 
ing through  her  songs,  or  keeping  quiet  guard  in  the  sentry-box 
of  her  heart. 

'You  had  my  message?'  she  asked,  feeling  instantly  that 
her  words  came  too  faintly  and  across  too  vast  a  distance  to 
reach  their  goal.  She  had  been  talking  to  him  in  her  heart, 
sending  messages  for  two  long  years  ...  he  had  never  yet 
replied.  But  now  he  was  smiling  and  saying  in  the  old  thrilling 
voice: 

'What  message?' 

'You  have  not  seen  your  cousin ?' 

'What  cousin?    I  have  so  many.1 

'The  Grafin  von  Hartung.' 

'No.  Is  Gerda  here?'  (Oh,  lucky  Gerda  to  be  so  called 
by  him!)  But  he  did  not  look  for  her;  his  voice  was  innocent 
of  interest  in  Gerda;  his  eyes  were  on  the  face  before  him. 

Had  Kitty  any  unformulated  misgiving  as  to  what  the  meet- 
ing meant  to  him,  it  vanished.  He  had  seen  her  across  the 
room.  People  had  turned  their  heads  with  surprise  to  see  him 
coming  straight  to  where  she  stood,  between  an  ancient  dame 
and  an  English  diplomat.  He  had  spoken  her  name  as  readily 
as  had  it  been  the  night  of  the  coming  out,  and  turned  a  little 
to  one  side,  adroitly  shutting  out  of  Paradise,  Diplomatist  and 
Dame. 

Katharine  did  not  know  that  more  than  one  having  the  re- 
verberant voice,  had  already  been  celebrating  her  advent  in 


26  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Rome,  and  that  elsewhere  in  these  two  years  Prince  Anton  had 
not  escaped  being  reminded,  from  time  to  time,  that  he  too 
could  claim  acquaintance  with  what  the  new  poet,  Michael 
Craven,  had  called  'the  most  unforgettable  face  in  England.' 

What  a  blessed  piece  of  fortune  that  the  Grafin  had  not  had 
the  chance  to  prepare  him!  How  could  one  in  that  case  have 
been  so  sure,  Kitty  asked  herself — so  blessedly  sure,  that  he  as 
well,  had  lived  these  two  years  'waiting'?  But  while  patience 
may  be  a  grace  in  a  girl,  the  same  thing  in  a  man  wears  a  mock- 
ing face,  unless  there  are  'circumstances'  .  .  .  explanatory 
barriers,  nobler  to  leave  standing  than  untimely  to  beat  down. 

'It  is  a  long  time  since  we  met,'  she  said,  innocently  opening 
the  door  forthwith  to  explanation. 

'Dreadfully  long,'  he  answered — and  left  a  pause  she  had 
no  skill  to  fill.  He  filled  it  with  a  bold  excursion  of  the  eyes, 
and  then:  'I've  always  known  I  should  see  you  again,'  he 
said. 

Could  declaration  in  a  crowded  room  be  plainer  ?  She  dropped 
her  gaze  upon  her  fan. 

'I  was  afraid  you  would  have  forgotten '  he  went  on. 

'  Forgotten  ? ' 

'Yes,  forgotten  our  meeting.' 

'Oh  no,  I  had  not  forgotten  our  meetings!'  She  smiled 
faintly  and  was  quickly  grave  again,  afraid  to  express  even  so 
little  where  so  much  waited  ready  to  rush  forth. 

'I've  often  thought  of — he  seemed  to  reflect  an  instant — 
'those  meetings.' 

'Yes ' 

'I  knew  I  could  count  on  there  being  a  third.'  She  looked 
up  quickly,  and  met  his  smile.  'They  say,  you  know,  if  there 
are  two  there's  sure  to  be  a  third.' 

'The  third  .  .  .'  she  began  and  hesitated,  for  that  long  ago 
third  had  power  even  now  to  dash  her  spirit. 

'Don't  tell  me  you've  forgotten  we  met  twice,'  he  said  im- 
ploringly, 'for  you  said  yourself  "our  meetings."'  A  troubled 
wonder  held  her  tongue.  '/  remember  perfectly  each  time.' 
He  lowered  his  voice.  'Was  it  likely  I  should  forget?'  She 
glanced  down  once  more  at  the  glittering  paillettes  on  her  fan. 
To  eyes  as  practised  as  the  Prince's,  through  the  veil  of  grave 


A  DARK  LANTERN  27 

shyness  over  the  drooping  face,  came  dimly  a  gleam  of  hidden 
fires.  The  old  need  fell  upon  him,  to  blow' the  faint-seen  spark 
to  the  bigness  of  a  bonfire — though  life  was  disappointing,  the 
flame  was  commonly  of  the  farthing-dip  description,  or  at  best 
a  fire  of  straw.  He  looked  at  the  face  bent  over  the  fan — was 
promise  there  of  stuff  less  easily  yielded  up  to  smoke?  'Don't 
you  remember  the  ball — that  ball  where  we  danced  to- 
gether?'— she  looked  up  waiting.  It  was  plain  his  boasted 
memory  was  guiltless  of  a  notion  of  where  the  ball  had 
been.  'And  then  I  saw  you  at  the  Dra wing-Room.  I  remem- 
ber the  Princess  Marie  whispering '  he  stopped  suddenly. 

'What  did  she  whisper?' 

'Oh — a — ,'  a  little  motion  indicating  and  dismissing  a  tribute 
to  uncommon  looks — 'the  sort  of  thing  you're  always  hearing, 
and  then  she  said  something  about  your  taking  it  all  as  calmly 
at  if  you'd  done  nothing  else  all  your  life.  I  swore  I'd  catch  your 
eye  and  see  if  I  couldn't' — he  laughed,  interrupting  himself. 
'But  by  that  time  you  were  gone,  and  an  awkward  horror  was 
wriggling  with  agony  in  front  of  the  Queen.' 

'  But  you  did  catch  my  eye.  And  we  talked  about  it  afterwards 
at  the  ball.' 

'Yes,'  he  said  with  animation,  the  sequence  of  their  encounters 
being  thus  providentially  cleared  up,  'the  ball  was  the  second 
meeting.' 

'And  the  third '  she  began,  needing  consolation  after  all 

this  time  for  the  pain  it  had  brought — 'the  third ' 

'Here! — by  a  stroke  of  uncommon  luck.  Where  shall  the 
fourth  be?' 

The  Cavaliere  Ginnasi  had  come  in  late  and  evidently  did 
not  realize  who  the  Prince  was.  He  stood  bowing  in  front  of 
Katharine  and  presenting  Donna  Pia,  his  daughter,  adding  that 
Lady  Peterborough  had  just  promised  to  bring  Miss  Dereham 
out  to  them  at  Albano,  the  following  Wednesday,  to  a  little  festa. 
During  the  Cavaliere's  brief  reference  to  the  yearly  holiday  that 
his  house  had  been  in  the  habit  of  giving  to  the  peasantry  round 
about,  Prince  Anton  stood  rather  stiffly,  not  sharing  in  the  con- 
versation even  when  appealed  to,  obviously  waiting  with  scant 
patience  till  the  interrupter  should  betake  himself  elsewhere. 
In  the  midst  of  a  remark  of  the  old  gentleman's,  the  Prince,  with 


28  A  DARK  LANTERN 

a  calmness  attainable  only  by  the  two  extremes  of  the  social  scale 
— by  the  utter  boor  and  the  person  of  exalted  rank — turned  his 
broad  shoulder  on  the  suave  little  Italian,  bent  towards  the  Eng- 
lish girl  and  said  under  his  breath,  '  I  am  waiting  to  be  told  where 
the  fourth  is  to  be.'  Kitty  seized  hold  of  her  self-possession  and 
hurriedly  asked  his  Highness'  permission  to  present — but  the 
Cavaliere  had  not  waited.  He  was  stiffly  leading  the  Donna 
Pia  towards  a  group  that  seemed  less  absorbed.  Looking  back 
later,  Kitty  knew  that  the  moment  when  the  Ginnasis  heard  who 
was  the  foreigner  with  the  atrocious  manners,  was  the  identical 
moment  when  her  name  was  first  linked  in  gossip  to  Prince  An- 
ton's. For  there  were  those  in  the  great  salon  waiting  to  renew, 
and  many  more  waiting  to  begin,  acquaintance  with  the  man  who 
stood  beside  Miss  Dereham,  saying:  'Of  course  I  can't  hope  it 
will  seem  as  important  to  you  as  it  does  to  me.  The  fourth  meet- 
ing, I  mean.' 

'What,'  she  asked  a  little  forlornly,  remembering  with  poign- 
ancy the  occasion  he  forgot, — 'what  would  be  my  excuse  for 
thinking  so?' 

'I'll  tell  you — when  I  dare.' 

She  did  not  receive  it  with  the  ready  coquetry  he  was  used  to, 
nor  yet  with  the  shy  confusion  he  would  have  understood. 

'I  went  back  to  England  again — twice,'  he  seemed  to  make 
out  a  strong  case  for  himself.  '  But  I  couldn't  find  you.' 

'You  did  try?' 

'Well,  of  course.' 

She  sat  down  on  a  divan  feeling  a  little  breathles?.  It  was 
coming!  But  hush!  Wait!  Not  here  must  it  find  her.  Had 
life  and  training  left  her  less  slow  to  feel  the  unfitness  of  the  time 
and  place,  the  room  full  of  eyes  pecking  surreptitiously  at  the 
Prince,  would  have  pricked  her  to  realization;  and  Lady  Peter- 
borough's pleased  vigilance  across  the  space  dividing  them  would 
have  reminded  the  girl  that  she  was  accorded  her  five  minutes 
te'te-a-tete  not  to  look  Destiny  in  the  face,  but  to  fasten  in  her  cap 
yet  another  feather — this  an  uncommon  fine  one — that  should 
set  off  past  trophies  and  win  others  new.  Homage  from  this 
man  lent  any  beauty  lustre. 

'  How  long  shall  you  be  in  Rome  ? '  she  asked. 

'  How  long  shall  you  ? ' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  29 

'Two  weeks.' 

'/  shall  be  two  weeks.' 

He  tried  to  make  her  meet  his  look.  Not  even  his  silence 
helped  him.  But  she  was  not  easily  embarrassed,  he  observed. 

Was  she  then  so  used ?  Was  she  as  blase  as  he  had  found 

many  a  girl  quite  as  young,  and  almost  as  innocent-seeming  ? 

'Are  you  much  here?'  he  said,  bowing  to  someone  who  had 
succeeded  in  catching  his  eye. 

'You  mean  here  at  the  Palazzo?'  she  asked.  He  saw  that 
her  glance  rested  on  the  group  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  where, 
stationed  boldly  under  the  full  blaze  of  the  chandelier,  Lady 
Peterborough  was  holding  forth  to  her  hostess  and  the  Mon- 
signore  Mazzuoli,  in  an  Italian  as  fluent  as  Kitty  knew  it  was 
atrocious. 

'  Oh  yes,  we  are  here  oftener  than  at  any  house  in  Rome.  They 
have  been  friends  for  fifty  years,  those  two — those  three  in  fact.' 

'The  Monsignore  too?' 

'Yes,  the  Monsignore  too.' 

'Fifty  years  is  too  long!'  he  laughed. 

'  Too  long  for  what  ?     Friendship  ? ' 

'Too  long  for  most  things,'  he  said  with  a  slight  impatience. 

'Not  too  long  for '  She  stopped  short.  His  wandering 

look  came  back  to  her.  What  was  she  blushing  so  furiously 
about  ? 

'  Not  too  long  for  what  ? ' 

The  girl  stood  up,  as  her  colour  deepened  painfully.  'She 
is  making  me  a  sign — Lady  Peterborough  is.' 

'/  am  making  you  a  sign.' 

Not  here — not  here, — her  fluttering  look  seemed  saying  as, 
back  and  forth,  among  the  glancing  lights,  from  face  to  face  it 
went,  like  a  butterfly  pursued  across  a  flower  bed.  Not  here — 
not  here 

'  Good-night.'     She  folded  the  shining  wings  of  her  fan. 

'You  mustn't  go  till  you  finish  your  sentence!'  he  said. 

'We  haven't  time — not  for — for  what  I  was  going  to  say.' 

'Not  time?    Why,  we've  got — fifty  years.' 

He  drew  her  eyes  to  drown  in  his.  She  caught  at  her  breath 
frightened,  and  without  a  word  moved  towards  the  centre  of  the 
great  room  to  meet  her  god-mother.  He  followed  close. 


30  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time  since  I  saw  you?'  he 
was  saying  over  her  shoulder. 

'Very  little' — then  suddenly,  with  a  vision  of  the  Grafin,  and 
remembrance  of  the  great  Roman  lady:  'But  you?'  she  paused 
to  ask. 

'I?' 

'Yes,  what  have  you  been  doing?'  she  insisted. 

'Waiting  for  to-night.' 

*  *  *  *  * 

It  was  the  first  time  within  their  experience  that  Lady  Peter- 
borough and  her  god-daughter  had  cared  to  see  much  of  the 
same  person.  That  they  should  do  so,  for  once  in  a  way,  made 
life  singularly  smooth.  It  removed  a  quite  recent  stone  of  stum- 
bling. Kitty  was  content  now  to  fall  in  with  projects  more  suit- 
able to  her  age  and  condition,  than  mooning  about  Rome  in 
quarters  that  were  not  even  'show'  places,  accompanied  only 
by  her  god-father  and  a  new  protege"  of  his,  a  beggarly  librarian. 

Lord  Peterborough's  views  about  the  Prince  were  not  easy 
to  elicit.  Kitty's  desertion  did  not  induce  the  old  man  to  spend 
more  time  in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  The  only  difference  now 
being  that  he  retired  alone  each  morning  to  haunts  that  had  lured 
him  when  he  was  young,  and  never  lost  their  charm — certain 
musty  book-lined  halls  to  which  he  returned  with  unabated  zest 
each  time  throughout  the  years,  whenever  he  revisited  Rome. 
He  had  certain  musty  friends  there,  and  one  who  wasn't  musty 
— men  learned  in  the  art  of  illumination  and  the  literature  of 
the  early  Italian  MS.  Commonly  he  went  to  them — once  in  a 
great  while  his  friends,  musty  and  otherwise,  came  to  him.  Lady 
Peterborough  had  observed  with  misgiving  Katharine's  par- 
tiality for  the  aforesaid  librarian,  a  dark-visaged  young  man, 
of  hot  temper  and  radical  tendencies,  to  whose  scholarship  Lord 
Peterborough  took  off  his  hat,  and  to  whose  damnable  opinions 
he  listened,  smiling.  Lady  Peterborough  provoked  their  utter- 
ince  (on  the  one  or  two  occasions  when  she  came  to  speech  with 
the  young  radical)  in  order  that  she  might  crush  them  and  him. 
Since  she  had  not  succeeded  as  well  as  she  could  wish,  she  felt 
the  need  of  keeping  an  eye  on  Signer  Giovanelli.  The  creature 
was  not  ill-looking,  and  bore  himself  with  a  certain  sullen  grace. 
When  her  ladyship  heard  he  was  so  poor  that  he  got  money  to 


A  DARK  LANTERN  31 

buy  new  books  by  binding  old  ones,  she  gave  him  commissions. 
But  'like  all  that  tribe,  he  is  not  really  grateful,'  she  remarked 
aside  when,  during  one  of  Prince  Anton's  visits,  Signer  Giovanelli 
was  announced.  He  produced  a  packet  of  French  Memoirs,  that 
had  gone  to  him  in  rags,  transfigured  now  in  fair  white  vellum 
bindings,  delicately  tooled  and  ornamented  with  gold  lettering. 

Lady  Peterborough  looked  at  them  critically,  as  if  trusting 
to  find  a  flaw  in  the  careful  work.  Prince  Anton,  who  had  found 
his  cue  in  Kitty's  sympathetic  reception  of  the  man,  took  up  one 
of  the  volumes  and  turned  it  over,  with  open  admiration.  Lady 
Peterborough  simply  looked  at  him  with  that  expression  her 
intimates  knew  so  well:  'You're  on  the  wrong  road,  my  friend.' 
But  the  girl's  face  told  another,  kinder  story,  and  as  silently 
besought  support. 

'It  is  not  easy,'  said  the  Prince  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur, 
'not  so  easy  to  get  such  work  done.' 

'I  shouldn't  think  you  ever  tried,'  said  his  hostess  dryly. 

'My  sisters  have;  at  home,  in  England  and  in  France.  I've 
seen  the  results.'  He  was  turning  to  the  young  man. 

'I  can  tell  your  sisters  of  dozens,'  Lady  Peterborough  inter- 
rupted, 'dozens  who  do  this  kind  of  thing — do  it  well.'  She 
seemed  to  distinguish  the  present  workman  for  inefficiency. 

'May  I  have  your  address?'  asked  the  Prince,  while  Kitty 
glowed  with  suppressed  approval.  But  the  angry  young  libra- 
rian replied  in  French  that  her  ladyship  was  quite  right,  and 
there  was  nothing  unusual,  not  even  unusual  badness,  in  the  work 
in  question.  Anton  persisted  and  further  complimented  the 
scheme  of  decoration. 

Ah,  how  good  my  prince  is!  Kitty  thought. 

'Really?  You  like  this?'  pursued  Lady  Peterborough.  'Oh, 
that  plain  one  Kitty's  looking  at  is  at  least  inoffensive.  But 
this.  Now  why  in  heaven's  name  so  big  a  coronet?'  She  ar- 
raigned her  beneficiary.  'And  one  won't  do  for  you.  You 
must  plant  a  crown  in  every  corner.  She  dabbed  at  each  repe- 
tition of  the  device  with  a  bony  finger,  and  raised  her  eyes  on  a 
sudden  to  the  Prince.  'Do  you  wonder  why  this  gentleman 
makes  so  much  of  coronets  ? '  She  smiled  her  wickedest.  '  Signer 
Giovanelli  is  a  Socialist.' 

'And  to  think,'  said  his  benefactress  when  he  was  gone,  'to 


32  A  DARK  LANTERN 

think  that  that  little  black  Obscurity  objects  to  the  monarchy, 
and  rages  against ' 

'Oh,  that's  not  why  you  dislike  him,'  said  Kitty.  'You  have 
no  patience  with  anybody  who  is  poor.' 

The  old  woman  gleamed  at  her  god-daughter's  rare  appre- 
ciation. 'Quite  true.  I  do  not  like  people  who  have  nothing. 
Still  less  people  who  have  nothing  but  a  grievance.5 

But  'the  greatest  gentleman  of  all  the  world'  had  shown  him- 
self incapable  of  harshness  towards  a  poor  student.  And  how, 
for  her  sake,  he  bore  with  Lady  Peterborough's  intolerance  and 
caprice! — though  no  one  knew  more  unerringly  than  the  Prince 
how  to  put  down  presumption.  There  was  the  time  when,  just 
as  they  were  going  in  to  luncheon  with  a  large  party,  Mr.  and 
Miss  Fox-Dorland  were  announced.  Lady  Peterborough's 
expressive  countenance  conveyed  that  they  were  too  assiduous, 
even  for  persons  violently  rich.  They  explained  that  they  had 
been  asked  for  this  day  by  Lord  Peterborough. 

'  Oh,  he  will  be  sorry  he  forgot,'  said  Kitty  in  the  chilling  pause, 
pitying  Miss  Fox-Dorland.  '  But  he  may  come  in  at  any  moment.' 

*Not  in  the  least  likely.  Peterborough  has  no  sense  of  his 
responsibilities.'  She  publicly  washed  her  hands  of  these  guests 
of  her  husband's,  knowing  as  well  as  Kitty  did,  that  the  absent 
host  wished  to  show  kindness  to  the  children  of  an  obliging  and 
erudite  collector  of  Illuminated  MS.,  themselves  ambitious  of 
quite  other  distinction. 

The  plain  daughter,  past  her  first  youth  and  not  yet  arrived  at 
temerity,  was  subdued  from  the  beginning  and  scarcely  opened 
her  mouth,  except  to  put  food  in  it.  Her  young  brother  was 
not  so  easily  choked  off.  He  wrestled  with  the  conviction  that 
if  only  Lady  Peterborough — above  all  Miss  Dereham — realized 
what  a  very  smart  young  man  he  was,  they  would  claim  him  for 
their  inner  circle  upon  the  general  exodus  to  London. 

'I've  been  at  San  Moritz,'  he  announced.  'It's  been  the  best 
season  they've  ever  known.'  This  eliciting  nothing:  'Are  you 
often  there  ? '  he  asked  Miss  Dereham. 

'Only  once,  two  summers  ago.' 

'In  the  summer!  Oh,  it's  horrible,  I  believe,  in  the  summer. 
Winter's  the  time.'  Lady  Peterborough  was  keeping  an  inimical 
eye  on  the  young  man.  He  felt  himself  in  the  full  lime-light. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  33 

'You  ought  to  go  for  the  Sports.  Your  friend  Lady  Muriel  Tat- 
ton  was  there  this  year.' 

'Was  she? 'said  Kitty. 

He  nodded  with  nonchalance.  'In  great  form,  too.  We 
skated  a  lot  together — that  is,  whenever  I  could  get  away  from 
the  Hon.  Mrs.  Bernard  Hayes.  She  was  always  getting  up  hockey 
parties,  or  making  me  go  toboganning  with  her.  Oh,  she's  great 
fun!'  He  looked  down  the  rather  silent  table  and  to  his  joy 
caught  Prince  Anton's  eye.  'Do  you  know  Mrs.  Bernard?' 
he  demanded. 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause.  Then,  'No,'  said  the  Prince, 
speaking  from  the  top  of  a  long  flight  of  stairs,  yet  not,  Kitty 
felt,  with  Lady  Peterborough's  offensiveness. 

'Oh,  I  thought  you  looked  as  if  you  did.  Most  people  know 
Mrs.  Bernard.  Prince  Henry  of  Prussia  says  she's  the  most 
wonderful  woman  for  her  age  he's  ever  known.  She  certainly 
keeps  one  busy,'  he  laughed. 

'Ah!'  said  Lady  Peterborough,  'did  she  manage  to  keep  you 
busy  ? ' 

'Rather!'  he  laughed  again  to  show  that  he  was  impervious 
to  the  pervading  chill.  'From  morning  till  night.'  He  turned 
instinctively  to  Miss  Dereham — 'And  she's  so  awfully  a — well- 
known,  don't  you  know,  it  was  a — a  little  conspicuous.  I  didn't 
altogether  like  it.  I  used  to  hear  people  asking  "Who  is  that 
Mrs.  Bernard's  got  hold  of  this  year?"  And  at  the  hops  she 
would  insist  on  my  leading  the  cotillon  with  her.  Didn't  alto- 
gether relish  it,  when  I'd  hear  new-comers  asking,  "  Who  is  that 
who's  dancing  all  the  time  with  Mrs.  Bernard?"  Same  thing 
morning,  noon  and  night — a  woman  as  repandue  as  that,  you 
know,  in  the  most  stunning  togs — and  everybody  staring,  and 
whispering,  and  asking  who  I  was.' 

A  pause. 

'Well,'  said  Prince  Anton,  'and  who  were  you?' 

The  incident  did  not,  except  in  the  Fox-Dorland  mind,  re- 
dound to  the  Prince's  discredit.  He  had  meted  deserved  punish- 
ment— and,  after  all,  in  Kitty's  opinion,  the  drafts  made  on  his 
forbearance  by  Lady  Peterborough,  might  well  leave  him  with 
little  over  for  a  chance  young  popinjay.  'How  beautiful  he  is 
to  her  for  my  sake,'  thought  the  young  egoist — and  vet  not  wholly 


34  A  DARK  LANTERN 

without  realization  that  it  is  men  of  a  different  world  from  his, 
who  imagine  they  may  with  safety  ignore  older  women  as  a  class. 
Where  it  may  be  done  with  impunity — without  effective  reprisals 
— the  society  is  in  a  barbaric  or  a  childish  stage.  No  such  error 
was  likely  to  be  made  by  a  man  like  Anton  of  Breitenlohe-Wal- 
denstein — but  the  reason  of  his  correctness  was,  in  this  particular 
case,  as  far  from  acquired  caution,  as  it  was  from  natural  piety. 
If  women  must  grow  old,  this,  in  his  opinion,  was  how  they  should 
do  it — arriving  at  the  dread  late  stage  in  the  long  journey  with 
forces  concentrated;  important  because  dangerous;  tolerable  be- 
cause amusing;  the  social  gift  sharpened  to  a  razor's  edge;  as  com- 
petent to  lift  a  favourite  high,  as  to  crush  an  inferior  under  foot. 

Lady  Peterborough,  for  her  part,  regarded  him  not  alone  as 
a  timely  object-lesson  to  Kitty — himself  so  plainly  unattainable 
for  more,  that  he  was  one  of  the  few  who  were  absolutely  'safe,' 
standing  there  as  he  did,  on  the  other  side  of  the  royal  gulf,  and 
yet  offering  a  standard  by  which  to  shrink  little  students  and 
Fox- Dor  lands  into  their  proper  nothingness. 

Prince  Anton,  in  his  turn,  amused  Lady  Peterborough,  and 
took  her  back  to  the  days  of  her  youth  when,  as  the  Ambassa- 
dor's daughter,  she  was  much  at  the  German  Court.  Full  of 
social  inventiveness  where  her  own  entertainment  was  at  stake, 
she  was  indefatigable  in  devising  ways  of  adding  to  the  chances 
of  a  meeting.  Not  once,  but  twice,  sometimes  even  three  times 
a  day,  in  those  enchanted  weeks,  did  Katharine  see  the  face  she 
had  waited  two  years  for  a  glimpse  of.  Never  mind  if  the  owner's 
kinship  with  the  occupant  of  '  the  Perilous  Siege '  was  not  so  easy 
to  verify,  when  Anton  sat  at  Lady  Peterborough's  side,  relishing 
her  wit,  condoning  her  cruelty,  convulsed  with  amusement  at 
some  sotto  voce  story.  In  the  minutes  when  they  were  alone, 
he  and  Katharine  walked  in  that  enchanted  forest,  that  in  the 
older  lands,  as  well  as  in  the  new,  is  virgin  still.  If  he  made  a 
false  step  sometimes,  said  something  that  jarred  or  vaguely 
troubled,  Katharine  was  quick  to  think:  that  is  the  kind  of  thing 
Lady  Peterborough,  or  girls  like  the  Grafin,  make  him  say.  If 
'one  of  the  most  worshipfullest  men,  and  one  of  the  best  knights 
in  the  world,'  thinks  meanly  sometimes  of  girls  and  women,  it 
is  girls'  and  women's  fault.  Never  for  an  instant  did  she  doubt 
that  he  would  gladly  take  a  nobler  view  of  the  sex,  were  it  pre- 


A  DARK  LANTERN  35 

sented.  He,  on  his  part,  equally  quick  to  readjust  himself  to 
a  nature  whose  very  aloofness  and  fastidiousness  were  a  charm 
while  they  yet  were  new.  Far  from  unpleasant  to  be  worshipped 
by  a  devote  like  this;  a  refinement  of  pleasure  even,  to  let  her 
little  prudishnesses,  her  odd,  old-fashioned  dignity  have  their 
day  ...  to  lead  her  by  degrees,  and  without  her  conscious  loss 
of  faith,  into  a  different  world. 

It  must  not,  however,  take  too  long.  He  rubbed  his  eyes 
when  he  realized  how  much  time  he  had  already  given  to  the 
undertaking,  and  how  little  he  could  yet  gauge  his  progress. 

'You  don't  seem  the  least  sad,'  he  reproached  her,  'that  these 
days  are  nearly  over.' 

'I  would  be  if ' 

'If?' 

Smiling:  'If  there  were  no  more  days.' 

'Is  that  an  invitation  to  England?' 

'  Do  you  need  an  invitation  ? ' 

'You  won't  be  surprised  to  see  me,  then?' 

'Oh,  no,'  she  answered  with  that  odd  directness  of  hers. 

'  You  will  be  surprised  if  I  don't  come  ?    Is  that  it  ? ' 

She  smiled  again. 

'Say  yes,'  he  implored,  thinking  that  to  make  her  admit  so 
much  would  be  the  work  of  an  hour.  But  the  answer  came  on 
the  instant. 

'Yes.' 

Extraordinary  how  bold  the  shy  thing  is,  he  thought,  but  what 
he  said  was: 

'  Of  course.    You  knew.' 

'Knew.  .  .?' 

'That  I  couldn't  possibly  stay  away.     Didn't  you?' 

Again  she  took  his  breath  by  saying: 

'Yes.' 

'When  did  you — did  you  realize?'  he  asked. 

'Why,  the  night  we  met  again.' 

'You  mean  at — a — 

'At  the  Principessa's.' 

It  amused  him  to  find  she  had  antedated  his  subjection  by 
so  many  days — little  knowing  she  waited  now,  expecting  him 
to  correct  her  for  post-dating  it  three  years. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  last  night  of  the  stay  in  Rome,  Lady  Peterborough  was 
'At  Home.'  Prince  Anton  had  been  dining  with  her.  For  the 
first  time  she  found  him  a  little  heavy  in  hand.  'After  all,  these 
Germans —  He  would  wake  up,  perhaps,  when  the  great 
bare  salon  began  to  fill  with  the  cosmopolitan  throng  that  would 
be  coming  during  the  evening  to  bid  the  Peterborough  party  good- 
bye. Kitty  was  radiant.  Well,  at  all  events  she  was  going  home 
heart-whole!  As  for  Lady  Peterborough,  she  was  sorry  herself, 
this  time,  to  leave  Rome.  Really,  she  must  try  to  import  that 
Prussian  princeling  into  England.  Though  he  had  been  dull  to- 
night, he  was  usually  the  reverse. 

'It  is  too  bad,'  Kitty  was  saying  at  that  moment,  'we  are  to 
stay  three  weeks  in  Paris  on  the  way  home.' 

'  Don't  you  like  Paris  ? ' 

'Yes,  but  I  don't  want  to  break  the  journey  this  time.  We 
shan't  get  to  London  till  Saturday  the  28th.'  As  he  said  nothing 
she  went  on  quite  low:  'You'll  come  on  Sunday?' 

'Sunday?    What  Sunday?' 

'The  last  in  May.' 

'The  day  after  you  get  home?' 

'Yes.' 

He  smiled.     'If  that  isn't  rather  soon.' 

'Soon!' 

'It  doesn't  seem  soon  to  me,'  he  agreed — 'it's  an  eternity.' 

'Yes,'  she  said,  and  sighed  on  the  single  syllable.  'It's  too  bad 
you  are  called  back  to  Waldenstein — or  else  you  might  meet  us 
in  Paris.' 

That  was  all  very  well!  he  argued  internally,  half  laughing, 
half  serious,  but  what  precisely  did  she  mean?  Where  were 

36 


A  DARK  LANTERN  37 

they?  Ridiculous  that  he  wasn't  the  least  sure.  And  he  had 
known  this  girl  two  years;  seen  her  constantly  for  two  weeks. 
And  she  had  not  been  out  of  his  head  now  for  days. 

'Come  and  have  a  talk  in  the  little  room  off  the  gallery,'  he 
said. 

'I  can't.' 

'Why  not?' 

'Oh,  I — I  have  to  be  here, — but  I  shall  see  you  in  London,' 
she  said  to  console  herself  as  well  as  him. 

'Oh,  London.  As  you  say,  it's  an  eternity  to  wait.  Besides, 
I  don't  know  about  London.' 

'Why  don't  you  know  about  it?' 

'I  can't  tell  you  here.'  Seeming  to  stroll  idly  among  the  com- 
ing and  going  guests,  a  word  here,  the  machine-made  bow,  a 
laugh  over  his  shoulder,  and  he  stood  at  last  at  the  great  folding- 
doors.  He  turned  and  looked  back  at  Kitty. 

Lady  Peterborough,  seeing  him  apparently  on  the  way  out,  said 
hurriedly  to  the  girl: 

'Ask  Prince  Anton  to  speak  to  me  again  before  he  goes.' 

More  people  were  arriving.  The  Prince  yielded  place,  glanced 
back  and  saw  Kitty  coming.  He  was  in  the  corridor  when  she 
reached  him  with  the  message. 

'  I  don't  usually  go  away  without  a  proper  leave-taking,  do  I  ? ' 
And  now  he  was  leading  her  towards  the  little  room,  past  the 
musicians  grouped  outside.  Katharine  debated  hurriedly  within 
herself. 

It  was  not  among  the  possible  things,  she  felt,  for  a  girl  to  fol- 
low a  man  out  of  a  crowded  drawing-room  and  go  to  talk  with 
him  in  another  room  alone.  She  stopped  with  an  air  of  regretful 
determination.  He  read  her  instantly,  and  before  her  protest  got 
beyond  her  eyes,  he  had  turned  to  the  flower-filled  recess,  just 
beyond  the  great  staircase,  where  a  long  oval  window,  blotted  out 
now  with  drawn  curtains,  looked  in  daylight  on  a  court.  In  front 
of  the  curtains  a  tapestried  seat  where  Katharine  sometimes  read 
or  dreamed.  A  shaded  lamp  hung  in  the  arch  above,  but  when 
the  window's  eye  was  shut,  the  nook  was  but  little  open  to  ob- 
servation. Prince  Anton  held  his  arm  across  the  branches  of 
the  oleander  for  Katharine  to  pass.  She  did  so  mechanically, 
but  once  in  the  niche,  stood  still,  saying  with  a  lift  of  voice  to  be 


38  A  DARK  LANTERN 

heard  above  the  music:  'I  can't  wait,  I'm  afraid.  Lady  Peter- 
borough only  sent  me  to — 

'To  bring  me  back.     You  can't  go  without  me.' 

'But  you'll  come.' 

'In  three  minutes.  And  for  those  minutes  you  are  to  sit  here.' 
He  stood  before  her. 

The  voices  of  a  party  of  new  arrivals  coming  up  the  stairs 
mingled  with  the  music  of  the  serenade.  Through  the  leaves  of 
the  formal  rank  of  flowering  shrubs  the  girl  saw  the  shine  of 
gowns  go  glancing  by — even  recognised  faces;  by  reaching  forth 
a  hand  might  have  touched  some  oblivious  passer.  And  yet  as 
well  have  gone,  as  he  had  suggested,  to  the  little  ante-room 
opposite. 

She  had  sat  down,  and  now,  as  on  this  thought  she  suddenly 
rose  up,  he  arrested  her  with  the  words:  'Are  you  going  to  be 
like  this  in  London?' 

In  the  long  thin  chain  that  hung  about  her  delicate  neck  she 
locked  her  fingers.  Unconsciously  near  to  snapping  she  strained 
the  fragile  links.  As  still  he  waited,  she  forced  herself  to  say: 

'When  you  come,  you'll  see  what  I'm  like.' 

In  the  seconds  that  had  gone  by,  his  thoughts  had  made  such 
far  excursion  that  he  said :  '  Come  where  ? ' 

'To  Peterborough  House — on  the  last  Sunday  in  the  month.' 

'I  don't  know  about  doing  that.' 

That  lifted  sudden  eyes,  and  brought  quick  words.  'Why 
don't  you  know?' 

'Why  should  I  go  to  England?'  The  swift  reproach  in  the 
little  face  pulled  him  down  beside  it.  'It's  all  right,'  he  said, 
laying  his  hand  on  hers  as  he  sat  down. 

'Is  it  all  right?'    He  felt  the  ringers  tremble. 

He  laughed  softly.  'Of  course.'  Until  now,  sitting  quite  near 
each  other,  they  had  been  talking  with  an  effort  above  the  music. 
Suddenly  the  serenade  ended,  with  an  effect  of  drawing  back  the 
curtain  behind  which  they  two,  in  the  recess,  had  been  as  well 
concealed  as  behind  closed  doors.  The  world  flowed  into  the 
corridor  upon  the  tide  of  voices  from  the  crowded  salon.  As 
though  confronted  by  a  hundred  eyes,  the  girl  had  withdrawn  her 
hand  upon  the  music's  ceasing. 

'  Don't  you  like  me  to  take  your  hand  ? '  he  said  quite  low. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  39 

Silence. 

'If  you  don't  answer  me,  I  shall  kiss  it.' 

'Oh,'  hurriedly ;  ' I  do— like ' 

'  Then  why  did  you  draw  it  away  ? ' 

'I  don't  know.' 

He  smiled,  but  reflectively.  Such  an  answer  from  any  other 
young  woman  would  have  been  eminently  satisfactory.  But  here 
he  was  vaguely  haunted  by  the  sense  of  uncertainty  inspired  in 
such  a  man  by  contact  with  the  virginal  mind — a  thing,  for  its 
brief  hour,  to  be  smiled  at.  But  a  little  unwilling  wonder  remains 
after  the  smile  is  gone.  No  matter  of  morals  his  hesitation  to 
make  the  first  rent  in  the  veil — purely  a  matter  of  the  nerves, 
more  sensitive  than  the  rigidly  virtuous  give  credit  for. 

'  Are  you  going  to  be  very  nice  if — when  I  come  to  England  ? ' 

'Haven't  I  been  nice  here?' 

'No.' 

'  When  was  I  not  nice  ? ' 

'When  you  hide  your  hand — when  you  frighten  me.' 

'It  isn't  nice  of  you  to  laugh  at  me.' 

'Laugh!     I'm  far  too  scared.' 

She  frowned  a  little  and  tried  to  draw  away  her  fingers  again, 
but  he  held  them  fast,  'Don't  you  realize  how  different  you 
make  me?'  he  asked. 

'"Different"  from  what  you  are  with '  She  shrank  from 

naming  the  great  lady  he  was  so  notoriously  neglecting. 

While  she  hung  hesitating  to  the  uncompleted  sentence,  the 
ante-room  door  opened  softly,  and  the  Grafin  von  Hartung  came 
out,  followed  by  one  of  the  men  from  the  French  Embassy.  She 
had  said  good-night  at  half-past  ten  on  the  excuse  of  going  home 
early  to  an  invalid  sister.  Now  at  twenty  minutes  past  eleven, 
she  was  running  lightly  down  the  stairs  with  her  new  cavalier  at 
her  heels. 

Kitty  was  more  glad  than  ever  that  she  had  eschewed  the  little 
room — not  out  of  consideration  for  the  Grafin — but  (from  that 
instinct  that  was  a  passion  with  her)  to  keep  her  own  most  radiant 
story  on  a  different  level. 

'Well,  I  said  you  made  me  different.     And  you ' 

'I  am  wondering  if  you  meant  "different"  from  what  you  are 
with  Grafin  von  Hartung?' 


40  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Well,  yes,'  he  said,  amused. 

'I  hope  so.' 

He  laughed  outright  at  her  emphasis.     'Don't  you  like  her?' 

'I  don't  like  the  way  she — no,  she  isn't  very  nice,  but  neither 
am  I  to  be  saying  so  to  you.' 

'She's  an  outrageous  flirt.     Is  that  what  you  mean?' 

'Don't  let  us  talk  about  it.' 

'But  I  am  interested.' 

'In  her?' 

'In  your  view  of  her.  What  does  she  do  that  isn't  what  you 
call  "very  nice"?' 

'Please  don't  ask  me.' 

'But  I  do.' 

'Oh,  you  know,'  said  Kitty  in  distress,  'you  know  what  she's 
like,  better  than  most.' 

'Yes,  I  know  all  about  her,'  he  said  rather  seriously,  'but  I'm 
not  sure  just  what  is  in  your  mind.  You  must  tell  me.'  He  held 
her  by  'must.' 

'The  Grafin— I  can't  say  it.' 

'Is  there  cw^thing  you  can't  say  to  me?'  he  asked  audaciously. 

In  her  heart  she  answered, '  No,  there  was  nothing — should  be 
nothing.'  But  aloud:  'Please  don't  ask.' 

'Yes,  tell  me.    What  is  it  that  you've  heard  that  Gerda  has ' 

Very  low  the  awful  truth  came  forth.  'She  has  let  somebody — 
a  man — kiss  her.' 

'You  mean  Monsieur  de  La  Ferte"  Beaujon?'  His  air  of  relief 
was  puzzling.  'How  do  you  know?' 

'No,  not  M.  de  La  Ferte.     I  mustn't  tell  you  who  it  was.' 

'Oh,  very  well.'    He  spoke  so  lightly  she  felt  obliged  to  add: 

'But  they  are  not  engaged.' 

'So!' 

'Yes.' 

'You  find  that  very  dreadful?' 

She  stuck  her  little  chin  in  the  air.    'Very  like  Natalie.' 

'Who  is  Natalie?' 

'My  maid.' 

'Ah — like  your  maid.'     He  got  up.     'Lady  Peterborough ' 

'Yes,  yes,  come.' 

Lord  Peterborough  was  saying  good-night  to  the  Principessa 


A  DARK  LANTERN  41 

and  her  party  at  the  door.  Anton  fell  in  with  an  arrangement 
she  proposed  for  the  end  of  the  month.  'But  you  can't,'  said 
Kitty,  as  they  went  on  through  the  throng, — '  there  won't  be  time.' 

'Time  for  what?' 

'To  go  to  her  place  in  the  Apennines  before  you  go  home,  and 
still  be  in  England  by ' 

'  Oh,  I  see,'  he  laughed  and  looked  over  her  head. 

Misery  came  swooping  down  upon  the  girl.  Oh,  how  long  the 
great  room  was,  and  Lady  Peterborough  was  at  the  far,  far  end. 
They  made  slow  progress,  stopping  to  speak  to  this  one  and  to 
that.  Presently,  as  they  were  going  on  again. 

'Don't  you  think  it's  rather  hard  on  me?'  she  said  quite  low. 

'What?'    He  turned  his  broad  shoulder  and  faced  her. 

'To  be  made  to  tell  you  something,  and  then  have  you 
offended  1' 

'I'm  not  offended,'  he  was  going  on. 

'Yes,'  she  said  wretchedly;  'you  are  quite  different  since  I  was 
so  rude  as  to  say  that  about  your  cousin.  I  wish  you'd  forgive 
me.  To-night.  Now.'  Again  he  glanced  back  at  her.  'Don't 
make  me  wait  till  you  come  to  England,'  she  implored. 

Tears  would  probably  have  spoilt  her — the  threat  of  tears  made 
her  eyes  wonderfully  tender.  She  really  was  very  beguiling,  he 
acknowledged  to  himself.  'I  wasn't  the  least  offended,'  he 
repeated,  but  this  time  he  stopped,  and  leaned  his  broad  back 
against  a  marble  pedestal  that  obstructed  their  way. 

'Oh.  Were  you  only  shocked?  It  was  very  tactless  of  me  to 
tell  you.' 

'Poor  Gerda,'  he  said — which  was  natural  enough,  but  he 
chuckled  unaccountably. 

Lord  Peterborough  descended  upon  them  and  carried  the 
Prince  away. 

When  he  came  half  an  hour  later  to  say  good-night,  and  au 
revoir  to  Kitty,  he  could  not  forbear  adding  under  his  breath: 
'So  it  is  understood?' 

'What?' 

'That  you  are  to  be  very  nice  to  me  in  England.  It's  only  on 
that  condition  I  come.  Remember  how  patient  I've  been  in 
Rome.'  (That  was  it,  then,  patience.)  'But  I  warn  you — I  shall 
not  be  patient  in  London.' 


42  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Lady  Peterborough's  change  of  plan,  which  brought  her  party 
back  to  London  on  Wednesday  instead  of  Saturday,  was  not 
known  to  Colonel  Dereham. 

Kitty's  sole  idea  in  not  telegraphing  to  him,  was  that  she  might 
lead  up,  by  a  happy  surprise  in  forestalling  their  reunion,  to  the 
glorious  news  of  Breitenlohe-Waldenstein's  coming.  For  her 
father  must  be  a  little — just  a  little — prepared  for  that  great 
Coming — not  to  England  alone,  but  visibly  into  his  daughter's  life. 

Towards  her  god-father  in  this  connection,  Kitty  was  conscious 
of  a  vague  sense  of  chili,  not  Lord  Peterborough's  fault  exactly. 
He  did  not  really  know  the  man,  of  all  men,  best  worth  knowing. 
He  had  been  absorbed  by  that  matter  of  the  acquisition  through 
Giovanelli  of  a  priceless  Florentine  Missal.  In  any  case,  Lord 
Peterborough  was  not,  after  all,  near  so  close  to  the  great  matter 
as  Kitty's  father.  She  would  go  direct  to  Hill  Street  from  the 
station,  in  spite  of  her  god-mother's  sniffing  and  the  maid's  glum 
looks.  'I  shall  not  stay  long,'  she  said  consolingly  to  the  unre- 
covered  Natalie,  whose  sufferings  in  the  Channel  had  reduced  her 
to  speechlessness.  She  was  left  humped  in  the  hansom  corner 
with  closed  eyes,  while  Kitty  sprang  lightly  out  on  reaching  the 
little  house  in  Hill  Street.  Before  she  could  ring  the  bell  a  new 
man-servant  opened  the  door  in  the  act  of  lifting  a  whistle  to  his 
lips. 

'Is  my  father — Colonel  Dereham  in?' 

'Y-yes'm — he  is  just  going  out.' 

When  the  man  recovered  from  his  surprise  the  girl  had  glanced 
into  the  little  library,  and  not  finding  her  father  there,  had  flown 
upstairs  and  opened  the  drawing-room  door.  Colonel  Dereham 
and  a  lady  were  apparently  taking  leave  of  each  other.  He 
dropped  her  hand,  gaping  at  the  apparition. 

'My  child!  what  has  happened?' 

The  belated  blast  of  the  hansom  whistle  ascended  shrill. 

'Only  that  I  am  home  again.'  Her  warmth  dropped  many 
degrees.  She  spoke  with  a  nervousness  unusual  to  her.  'They've 
made  some  blunder  about  the  new  ball-room  decoration.  We 
came  as  soon  as  Lady  Peterborough  heard.  She  is  very  angry.' 

'She  would  be,'  he  laughed,  but  oddly,  Kitty  felt. 

The  strange  lady  had  been  simply  staring.  She  was  a  pictur- 
esque creature — too  picturesque,  the  girl  felt  vaguely.  More  ex- 


A  DARK  LANTERN  43 

perienced  eyes  than  hers  would  have  seen  that  without  rouge  and 
pencilling  the  lady  would  have  been  handsomer,  but  less  observed. 
She  wore  a  great  deal  of  barbaric-looking  jewellery.  Lumps  of 
dull  turquoise,  chains  of  uncut  emeralds  fell  over  the  elaborate 
embroidery  of  a  Paris  gown.  Her  cart-wheel  hat  would  have 
graced  a  garden-party,  and  put  the  flower-beds  to  shame.  Kitty 
had  never  known  anyone  just  like  this.  Why  did  she  seem  in 
some  way  familiar,  as  with  a  manner  combining  the  uncertain 
and  the  overbold,  she  advanced,  diffusing  strong  scents? 

Ah,  that  was  what  it  had  been  that  had  met  Kitty  at  the 
threshold.  It  was  a  perfume  that  she  had  sometimes  noticed  and 
vaguely  wondered  at  before.  She  had  once  accused  her  father  of 
using  it.  He  in  turn  accused  a  new  soap. 

'Won't  you  present  me  to  Miss  Dereham?' 

'Ah — oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.     Mrs.  Heathcote.' 

'How  do  you  do?'  She  had  taken  the  girl's  hand.  'This  is  a 
moment  I've  looked  forward  to.  I  used  to  hear  about  you  in 
India,  and  be  shown  pictures  of  you,  when  you  were  a  little  girl.' 

'And  I,'  Kitty  forced  herself  to  say,  'I  have  heard  how  kind 
you — you  all  were  to  my  father  when  he  was  so  ill.' 

'It  was  very  little  to  do  for  an  old  friend.  But  now  that  you 
and  I  have  at  last  met,  let  us  see  something  of  one  another.' 

'I — I  should  be  very  glad.' 

'The  hansom,  sir,'  said  the  new  servant  at  the  door. 

'Your  hansom  is  here,'  repeated  Colonel  Dereham  to  his  visitor, 
in  a  higher  key,  as  one  speaks  to  the  slightly  deaf. 

She  looked  at  him,  looked  strangely,  the  girl  thought. 

'I  will  leave  you  two  to  arrange  a  meeting,'  she  said.  'Good- 
bye,' and  Kitty's  father  was  conducting  her  downstairs,  with  some 
precipitancy. 

Left  alone,  she  walked  about,  looked  at  the  cards  of  invitation 
stuck  in  the  Adam  mirror  —  cards  that  bore  names  conveying 
nothing  to  the  girl.  She  had  a  returning  sense  of  the  strangeness 
of  this  whole  life,  so  near,  yet  so  unknown.  What  were  they  like, 
these  Colonels  and  Captains  and  their  wives  ?  How  unnatural  to 
have  so  little  share  in  her  father's  friendships !  How  wrong  to  be 
so  self-absorbed!  With  a  pang  she  once  more  noted  the  bare 
unlived-in  look,  that  makes  most  men's  rooms  so  unnecessarily 
touching  to  the  feminine  mind.  For  the  average  man  is  happily 


44  A  DARK  LANTERN 

unconscious  of  the  discomfortable  aspect  a  room  may  wear,  that 
yet  is  supplied  with  all  the  things  that  he  counts  needful. 

'Poor  father!'  the  girl  whispered,  and  with  an  extension  of 
sympathy — 'What  an  awful  friend  he's  got,  too!  It  is  bad  luck 
to  owe  gratitude  to  a  woman  like  that!  How  little  I've  thought 
of  him  all  these  happy  days!  I  must  make  it  up' — and  she 
turned  to  Colonel  Dereham  on  his  reappearance,  too  full  of  new 
solicitude  and  reproached  affection,  to  take  note  of  the  curious 
half-dogged,  half-appealing  look  that  darkened  the  handsome  face 
— or  its  lighting  on  the  instant  she  said:  'Dear,  I'm  so  glad  at 
last  to  have  seen  Mrs.  Heathcote.  Did  you  ask  her  to  dine  with 
us  on  Sunday?' 

'No.     Not  Sunday.' 

'When?' 

'I  didn't  ask  her  at  all.' 

'But  you  will.' 

He  took  the  girl  by  the  shoulders  and  looked  at  her  caressingly, 
yet  still  with  that  effect  of  dumb  appeal.  'You  certainly  don't 
seem  to  be  the  worse  for  your  journey.' 

They  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  and  she  told  him  odds  and  ends 
that  might  amuse  him,  knowing  now  that  this  would  not  be  the 
occasion  for  the  great  unburdening — besides,  the  butler  had  s^id 
he  was  going  out.  She  must  not  feel  hurried  when  she  told  him 
her  story. 

He  looked  older.  Had  that  been  coming  slowly?  Only  now, 
in  this  strong  light  and  after — was  it  only  fatigue  or  had  it  been 
emotion? — only  now  did  she  see  quite  plain  the  first  hint  of  the 
pinch  at  the  nostril,  the  discoloration  under  the  eyes,  and  where 
was  his  fine  colour?  It  had  been  going  this  last  year.  Now 
suddenly  it  was  gone! 

'Are  you  ill,  dear?'  she  asked  presently,  laying  her  arms  about 
his  neck. 

'111?    No.     What  put  that  in  your  head?' 

'Your  eyes  look  ill.' 

'Oh,  a  little  headache.' 

' and  you  are' — she  suppressed  'yellow' — 'your  nice  fresh 

colour  is  gone.' 

'Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure.  Don't  forget  that,  my  girl! 
Well,  have  you  left  your  heart  in  Italy?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  45 

She  shook  her  head.  Another  time  she  would  tell  him  how  it 
was  gone  to  the  Riesengebirge,  but  she  was  flung  back  to-day 
upon  the  thought  of  him — his  unshared  life.  What  profit  had  he 
of  his  daughter  ?  She  came  and  went  like  a  mere  visitor.  It  was 
all  wrong  and  she  was  to  blame. 

'Father,  I  wish  you  would  let  me  know  some  of  your  friends.' 

'Lady  Peterborough  doesn't.' 

'She  is  not  my  mother.  'I  don't  want  to  be  so  outside  your 
life.  .  .  .'  (Such  a  little  time  left,  too — she  must  make  the  most 

of  these  days  before )  'I  am  willing  to  give  up — to  share — 

one  of  our  dear  Sundays.  If  you  don't  ask  Mrs.  Heathcote  I  feel 
sure  she'll  be  hurt.'  He  gave  a  queer  short  laugh.  'Don't  you 
mind  that?  It's  very  ungrateful  if  you  don't.  He  made  no 
defence — no  answer.  'Suppose  I  mind.' 

'Oh,  you  have  other  things  to  mind.' 

'  You  know  I've  often  asked  you  before — and  we  mayn't  always 
have  the  opportunity.' 

'Opportunity  for  what?' 

'To — for  me  to  share  your  life.' 

She  blushed  as  he  said,  'Oh,  ho!' 

'Do  ask  Mrs. —  A  curious  look  of  repulsion  in  his  face 

arrested  her.  'If  not  Mrs.  Heath '  She  stopped  again.  It 

was  almost  as  if  he  shrank  from  the  name  repeated  on  his  daugh- 
ter's lips.  'What  were  you  meaning  to  do  to-night?' — her  eyes 
went  back  to  the  cards  in  the  panelled  mirror. 

'Nothing  in  particular.' 

'This  Lady  Wick — Wick!  what  a  droll  name! — is  enchanted 
to  know  you  will  come.'  She  read  the  words  written  in  the  corner 
of  the  card. 

'Oh,  I  hadn't  really  made  up  my  mind.' 

'Then  do,  and  take  me.' 

'It  wouldn't  amuse  you.' 

'I'm  sure  it  would!  I  should  so  love  it,  if  sometimes  we  did 
things  together.' 

While  he  said,  'Not  this,  I  think,'  she  saw  he  was  considering. 

It  would  immensely  flatter  Lady  Wick  if  he  brought  his  daugh- 
ter to  her  party.  She  was  always  begging  him.  .  .  .  Kitty 
recognised  the  look  in  the  weak,  handsome  face  that  meant 
yielding,  and  she  patted  his  hand. 


46  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'That's  beautiful.  I  must  go  now  or  Natalie  will  be  a  deader. 
Why  do  you  suppose  servants  are  always  worse  travellers  than  we 
are?'  But  she  did  not  wait  for  Colonel  Dereham's  views.  'I'll 
call  for  you  at  ten.' 

'You'll  get  into  trouble  with  Lady  Peterborough.' 
But  Kitty  danced  away.     'Be  ready  at  ten,  Sir.' 

'Tell  me  about  our  hostess,'  she  said  gaily  as  they  drove  to 
Hans  Crescent. 

'Oh — a — she  hunts.     Place  in  Leicestershire.' 

'Is  there  a  Lord  Wick?' 

'  Sir  William.  No  one  but  the  Queen  has  ever  seen  Sir  William, 
they  say.  The  Queen — and  of  course  Lady  Wick.' 

'Oh  why  did  the  Queen  see  him?' 

'She  had  to  when  she  knighted  him.' 

'Why  was  he  given  his  knighthood?'  Kitty  asked,  thinking  as 
she  always  did,  it  was  the  most  beautiful-sounding  rank  in  the 
world.  Even  to  that  day,  given  England's  venerable  Queen  to 
strike  the  deserving  shoulder  with  a  sword,  '  to  be  made  a  Knight ' 
had  a  marvellous  fine  ring  about  it.  '  What  had  he  done  to  deserve 
the  honour?' 

'Happened  to  be  Mayor  of  his  town  when  the  Queen  passed 
through.' 

Lady  Wick  stood  receiving  her  guests  in  a  merciless  white  satin 
gown,  which  set  off  with  uncalled-for  vividness  the  hues  of  a 
visage  dyed  in  wine  and  wind.  Hers  was  one  of  those  com- 
plexions in  which  a  general  effect  of  high  colour  is  harshly  gained, 
not  by  the  equal  diffusion  of  swift  blood,  but  by  the  tracery  on 
the  skin's  surface  of  a  multitude  of  tiny  threads  of  scarlet,  which 
seem  at  a  distance  to  merge  into  an  even  flush  of  colour.  She 
grew  purple  with  gratification  and  excitement,  when  she  caught 
sight  of  Colonel  Dereham  and  his  daughter,  and  forthwith  gave 
Kitty  her  first  experience  of  being  vulgarly  lionized.  What  odd 
people  there  are  in  the  world,  she  reflected,  a  little  bewildered,  as 
she  was  passed  round  like  a  cake  basket  at  a  country  tea.  If 
these  people  had  less  manners  they  certainly  had  more  'manner' 
than  those  Katharine  commonly  encountered.  It  struck  her  these 
guests  of  Lady  Wick's  took  more  pains,  were  more  deliberately 
vivacious  and  'entertaining.'  The  young  men  were  rather  like 


A  DARK  LANTERN  47 

Marshall  and  Snelgrove's  young  men — very  elegant.  The  ladies 
— she  saw  her  god-mother  describing  them  with  a  single  portentous 
look,  and  so  consigning  them  to  unplumbed  deeps.  The  thought 
stirred  the  girl's  antagonisms.  The  ways  of  Peterborough  House 
were  perhaps  not  much  to  boast  of.  The  cousin  with  whom 
Kitty's  schooldays  had  been  passed  at  Auteuil,  Madame  de 
Courcelles,  would  find  them  boorish  enough. 

Now  she  was  being  presented,  in  passing,  to  a  keen  looking 
young  man.  His  eyes  had  followed  her  ever  since  her  entrance, 
despite  his  attention  being  claimed  by  a  loud  young  woman  with 
a  dashing  air.  He,  however,  took  the  introduction  to  Miss  Dere- 
ham  less  to  heart  than  the  rest,  who  had  all,  more  or  less,  made 
her  little  speeches.  This  man  merely  nodded  and  continued 
unabashed  his  silent  appraisement. 

'Oh,  and  here's  Major  Whitney!'  this  from  the  hostess  in  a 
tone  that  dismissed  the  dark  young  man  as  effectually  as 
Lady  Peterborough  could  have  done — presenting  instead  a  truly 
worthy  object  in  the  Major.  'He  would  never  have  forgiven 
me  while  life  lasts  if  I  failed  to  present  him!  Miss  Kitty 
Dereham.' 

How  dare  she  call  me  Kitty!  The  girl  bowed  distantly,  and 
turned  her  head  to  look  in  the  crowd  for  her  father.  '  You  know 
Colonel  Dereham  of  course,'  Lady  Wick  was  saying.  'No?' 
she  lowered  her  voice.  Kitty,  as  she  scanned  faces,  profiles, 
backs  of  the  encompassing  crowd,  heard  again  explanatory  frag- 
ments. 'Yes,  of  the  iyth — Simla — The  Peterboroughs — Sar- 
gent's picture '  And  again,  she  met  the  look  of  the  dark 

young  man  fixed  full  upon  her.  There  were  many  eyes  turned 
towards  the  girl,  but  these  arrived.  Kitty  found  herself  ex- 
changing glances  with  them,  as  Lady  Wick  raised  her  tired,  voice 
with  shrill  vivacity:  'Now,  Major,  since  you're  a  man  of  prowess 
you  may  hew  a  way  for  Miss  Dereham  into  the  next  room. 
There'll  be  music  presently,  and  Tommy  is  there.  He's  simply 
dying  to  know  Miss  Dereham." 

'Let  him  perish.  I  shall  keep  Miss  Dereham  here,'  returned 
Major  Whitney  with  a  facetious  air. 

'Oh,  Major!  Major!'  Lady  Wick  screamed  with  delight  as 
she  hurried  back  to  the  door  to  meet  a  new  batch  of  arrivals. 

Katharine  turned  her  back  on  the  gallant  soldier.     'I  wish 


48  A  DARK  LANTERN 

there  were  such  a  thing  as  a  chair,'  she  said  to  the  young  man 
with  the  eyes. 

'Where  do  you  want  it?'  he  answered  without  budging. 

'Plenty  of  chairs  in  the  next  room,'  said  the  Major  over  her 
shoulder.  Katharine  looked  steadily  in  front  of  her. 

'  You  want  to  sit  down  here  ? '  demanded  the  dark  young  man. 

'Somewhere  here,'  she  said  with  a  frown  as  the  Major's 
voice  still  urged,  'Music  and  plenty  of  chairs  in  the  next  room. 
"Tommy's"  there  too,  as  you've  heard.  And  now  you  won't 
doubt  that  I'm  the  most  unselfish  man  in  the  Service — your 
service,  Miss  Dereham.' 

But  Kitty  was  watching  the  quick  turn  of  the  black  head  in 
front  of  her,  the  rapid  tour  of  the  long  eyes,  that  look  of  resource- 
fulness as  unmistakable  in  a  drawing-room  as  in  ship  or  work- 
shop. The  dark  young  man  shouldered  his  way  a  few  paces 
and,  looking  back,  made  a  sign — a  funny  imperious  little  motion 
of  the  head.  Kitty  hesitated.  The  Major's  voice  decided  her. 
She  was  following  the  dark  young  man  through  the  crush.  He 
was  elbowing  his  way  with  as  little  haste  as  civility,  drawing 
attention  to  his  requirements  with  a  quiet:  'One  moment  please. 
— Yes. — Let  me  through,  will  you?' — and  he  removed  a  pretty 
girl  with  as  little  concern  as  he  'shifted'  a  fat  old  man. 

'Here,'  he  had  cleared  a  little  island  in  the  crush,  and  drawn 
into  it  a  small  divan  that  had  been  pushed  under  a  curio  table. 

'You  have  got  sharp  eyes!'  laughed  Kitty  as  she  gratefully 
appropriated  the  seat.  'I'll  just  sit  here  a  moment  till  that 
Major  man '  She  apologized  for  her  action  more  to  her- 
self than  to  her  new  acquaintance,  standing  guard,  like  a  beef- 
eater before  the  throne. 

'Oh,  the  Major's  all  right — very  good  officer.' 

Kitty  made  a  little  face,  and  rested  her  chin  in  her  hand,  elbow 
on  knee. 

'You're  tired  1'  announced  the  beefeater. 

'I  crossed  from  Boulogne  this  morning.' 

'I  crossed  from  Calais  yesterday.' 

'Oh,  have  you  been  in  Italy  too?' 

'No,  Vienna.' 

'I  don't  know  Vienna.' 

'Neither  do  I.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  49 

'How  is  that?* 

'I've  been  working  there.' 

'At  what?' 

'Science.' 

'Stand  more  so,'  she  commanded,  motioning  with  her  fan. 

Instead  of  obeying,  he  said  'Why?' 

'Because  I  don't  want  Lady  Wick  to  find  me  and  tell  any 
more  people  that  I'm '  She  shrugged. 

'That  you're  what?' 

'Oh,  it's  bad  enough  once  all  round,'  she  said,  laughing.  'No- 
body can  be  told  twice  who  anybody  is.  Not  that  I  blame  any- 
one for  forgetting.  I've  come  to  a  point  of  tiredness  myself 
where  I  can't  listen  to  names.' 

'Yes,  I  saw  that.' 

'Saw  what?' 

'That  you  didn't  hear  mine.' 

'What  is  it?' 

"'Nobody  can  be  told  twice,"'  he  quoted. 

'Oh,  very  well.     I  won't  tell  you  who  I  am.' 

'I  knew  who  were  you  when  you  came  in.' 

'How  did  you ' 

But  he  kept  her  to  the  point.  'What  has  Lady  Wick  been 
telling  people  about  you  ? ' 

'Oh,  nothing,'  said  the  girl,  with  a  sudden  resumption  of 
discretion. 

'You  began  to  say?'  he  persisted. 

'I  think  not.' 

'Yes,  you  did.' 

This  young  man  is  odder  even  than  the  other  odd  people. 
Kitty  considered  the  face,  which  she  found  rather  striking,  and 
his  impossible  manners  even  more  striking  than  his  face.  Highly 
unlikely  that  she  should  have  met  him  before,  unlikely  too  that 
she  should  have  forgotten.  But  she  asked: 

'Did  you  say  you  knew  me?' 

'Yes.' 

'Where  was  it?' 

'What?' 

'That  we  met.' 

'I  didn't  say  we  had  met.    I  said  I  knew  who  you  were.' 

4 


50  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'You've  seen  my  picture?' 

'I've  seen  you.' 

'Where?' 

'At  the  Opera — last  year.' 

'Oh,  you  go  often?' 

'Not  here.' 

'While  you've  been  abroad?' 

'Yes.' 

'Then  you  do  know  something  about  Vienna  after  all.' 

'The  University  and  the  Opera,  that's  all  I  saw.' 

'  You  care  about  music  ? ' 

'No.' 

'No?    Why  do  you  go ?' 

'Because  the  row  puts  other  things  out  of  my  head.' 

'Row!    You  mean  the  music?'  she  laughed,  delighted. 

'Yes,'  he  said  quite  gravely.  '\Vhen  I've  been  working  at  the 
same  thing  for  seventeen  hours,  I  can't  always  get  my  mind  to 
leave  off.  But  a  lot  of  banging  does  it.' 

While  Kitty  was  laughing,  he  went  on:  'I  used  to  drink 
beer.' 

' and  now  you  go  to  the  Opera.' 

He  nodded.  'Music's  just  as  fuddling  at  the  time  and  not  so 
unsatisfactory  next  day.' 

'Oh,  what  a  nice  conversation  we  are  having — don't  let  Lady 
Wick  find  me.' 

'I  could  come  and  see  you.' 

'  Oh !  could  you  ? '    His  audacity  took  her  breath ! 

Instead  of  answering,  Katharine  stood  up  and  caught  sight  of 
her  father.  She  made  him  a  sign. 

'Let's  see,  it's  Peterborough  House,  isn't  it?'  said  the  per- 
sistent voice  at  her  side. 

'No,  Hill  Street,'  answered  Katharine,  as  she  joined  her  father. 
Deliberately  she  gave  no  number. 

On  her  way  home,  feeling  that  her  comments  on  Lady  Wick 
and  Major  Whitney  had  not  given  satisfaction:  'Father  dear,  I 
like  your  friends,'  she  said.  'They're  so — so ' 

'So  what?'  asked  Colonel  Dereham  with  an  unusual  edge  in 
his  mellow  voice. 

'So— different.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  51 

'Different  from  what?' 

'Why,  from  everyday  people.' 

'They  may  not  be  exactly  like  the  people  you  see  every  day.' 

'Oh,  no,'  the  girl  admitted  frankly,  'not  a  bit.'  Her  father's 
silence  admonished  her.  'Your  .  .  .  Lady  Wick's  people  are 
much  more  .  .  .  original.' 

'H'm.' 

'That  man  that's  been  studying  science  abroad— — ' 

'Which  was  that?' 

'I  forget  his  name.' 

Really  that  young  man  was — what  was  he? 

Different,  any  way. 

Too  'different'  even  for  Hill  Street. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  drawing-room  was  full  of  people  when  on  Sunday  after- 
noon, to  the  surprise  of  everyone  but  Kitty,  Prince  Anton  came 
in.  He  seemed  scarcely  to  see  the  girl.  Lady  Peterborough 
masked  most  of  her  enormous  content  at  his  appearance,  know- 
ing that  the  best  way  to  make  sure  of  seeing  a  good  deal  of  such 
a  person,  was  not  to  make  too  much  of  the  circumstance.  Not 
only  the  Prince,  but  his  friend  and  secretary  the  old  Freiherr 
von  Dewitz,  principal  member  of  the  small  and  economically 
ordered  suite,  spent  most  of  their  time  at  Peterborough  House. 
They  dined  and  drove  with  her  much-diverted  ladyship,  they 
sat  in  her  box  at  the  Opera. 

Just  before  he  went  away  that  first  Sunday: 

'You  are  looking  very  well  pleased,'  Prince  Anton  said  to 
Kitty,  'to  be  back  in  London.' 

The  girl  smiled.     'Do  you  think  it's  that?' 

'What  else?' 

'I  can't  imagine.'  And  then  they  both  laughed.  In  spite  of 
Lord  Peterborough  joining  them  at  that  moment,  Katharine 
went  on:  'You  are  pleased  too,  aren't  you?'  Turning  to  the 
old  man:  'We  are  saying  it's  good  to  be  back  in  London.' 

Instead  of  continuing  in  the  same  vein,  'Still,  I  don't  deny,' 
said  the  Prince,  'I'd  rather  be  in  the  country  at  this  time  of  the 
year.' 

Was  that  for  the  intruder's  edification,  thought  Kitty,  wondering. 

'Where  for  preference?'  Lord  Peterborough  was  asking, 
'  Waldenstein  ? ' — but  simultaneously  with  the  answer  'N-no, 
not  Waldenstein,'  Lady  Algy  was  at  his  elbow,  stiffly  claiming 
fraternal  attendance  to  her  carriage. 

'Why  not  Waldenstein?'  Kitty  asked. 

52 


A  DARK  LANTERN  53 

'Because  there  are  places  more  .  .  .  One  of  my  cousins  and 
I  have  a  little  shooting-box  in  Hungary ' 

'You  don't  get  any  sport  this  time  of  the  year,  do  you?' 

'Not  shooting,  but  it's  at  its  best  in  other  ways  just  now.  I 
can  see  you  there.' 

Ah,  that  was  what  he  meant — away  from  all  these  people — he 
and  she  alone 

'What  is  Waldenstein  like?'  she  asked. 

'  Waldenstein  ?  Oh,  Waldenstein  is  an  ugly  barrack — except 
an  old  bit.' 

'When  was  the  old  bit  built?' 

'Twelve  hundred  and  something.  But  the  shooting-box  .  .  . 
you'd  like  that. 

***** 

It  was  during  an  entr'acte  in  the  Boheme  that  Kitty,  refusing 
to  her  eyes  the  bliss  of  turning  and  exchanging  looks  with  the 
man  who  sat  at  the  back  of  the  box,  behind  Lady  Peterborough, 
leaned  on  the  railing  and  fixed  her  gaze  on  the  tier  above. 

A  face  was  bending  over,  apparently  looking  intently  into  the 
Peterborough  box.  People  did  that  more  than  ever  since  Anton 
had  taken  to  sitting  there.  Even  from  the  Omnibus  box,  royal 
eyes  wandered  thither  and  seemed  to  forget  the  way  back.  But 
this  face  looking  down  from  above — as  she  glanced  up  a  second 
time  the  man  bowed.  Katharine  looked  over  her  shoulder,  and 
right  and  left  into  other  boxes,  to  see  for  whom  the  bow  was 
meant.  No  one  but  herself  seemed  to  notice. 

Again  looking  up,  again  she  met  the  downbent  look,  and  again 
the  recognition.  She  picked  up  her  glass.  Why,  of  course.  It 
was  Lady  Wick's  dark  young  man,  who  had  said  that  'the  row' 
at  the  Opera  rested  him  after  his  long  hours  of  study.  Kitty 
smiled  and  he  nodded  again.  Going  out  she  saw  him  in  the 
lobby,  and  laughed  as  she  caught  his  eye,  remembering  the 
ground  of  his  patronage  of  Covent  Garden.  He  must  be  study- 
ing very  hard  just  now.  He  seemed  to  need  a  great  deal  of  re- 
laxation. He  was  always  there — always  in  the  same  place,  and 
always  staring  down  into  the  Peterborough  box.  If  he  ever 
looked  at  the  stage  Kitty  certainly  never  caught  him  in  the  act. 
She  would  smile  and  nod;  and  when  she  was  specially  happy, 
she  smiled  and  nodded  more  than  once.  Life  was  so  extremely 


54  A  DARK  LANTERN 

gay,  why  not?  It  was  even  a  relief  to  be  able  to  smile  and  nod 
at  some  one  a  long  way  off,  since  one  might  not  look  at  the  man 
behind  Lady  Peterborough's  chair,  or  if  at  all,  so  dreadfully 
discreetly.  And  the  dark  young  man  was  always  in  the  lobby 
when  they  came  out — and  Kitty,  yes,  she  did  rather  make  eyes 
at  him.  Life  was  so  extremely  gay. 

Several  times  as  she  was  driving  in  or  out  of  St.  James's 
Square,  she  had  passed  and  was  recognised  by  the  young  man 
who  seemed  of  late  to  have  much  business  in  that  part  of  town. 
He  took  his  constitutional  in  the  Park,  too,  of  a  morning.  Kitty 
had  got  into  the  way  of  looking  out  for  him  as  she  raced  up  and 
down  the  Row.  Flying  by,  she  would  make  him  a  gay  little  sign, 
partly  out  of  happy  morning  spirits,  partly  just  to  see  the  face 
light  up. 

But  he  was  growing  bolder.  He  stood  to-day  by  the  pillar-box 
at  the  corner  of  St.  James's  Square,  pretending  to  write  on  a  card 
before  posting  it,  and  deliberately  watching  her  being  handed  into 
the  carriage  after  her  god-mother,  by  the  Prince.  He  had  smiled 
when  he  first  caught  sight  of  her;  now  he  was  frowning. 

'Who  is  that  with  the  Dark-Lantern  face?'  Lady  Peterborough 
demanded. 

'I  don't  know  his  name.' 

'Why  do  you  nod  to  him  then?' 

'Oh,  he's  a  friend — an  acquaintance,  at  least,  of  my  father's.' 

The  young  man  had  posted  his  card.  In  the  act  of  going 
slowly  on,  he  stopped  and  drew  out  his  watch. 

Seeing  Kitty's  eyes  still  on  him,  'He  walks  like  a  shopkeeper,' 
said  Lady  Peterborough,  dismissing  him. 

' or  a  student,'  corrected  the  girl,  'and  that's  what  he  is!' 

Then  Lady  Peterborough  spoke  of  the  stamp  of  the  English 
public  school,  and  Waldenstein  and  the  Freiherr  of  the  fine 
effect  of  militarism  even  upon  the  civilian.  And  now  they  were 
off.  Lady  Peterborough,  unfurling  her  brilliant  parasol,  looked 
out  upon  the  world  contented,  calm,  like  an  Eastern  idol  beneath 
its  canopy.  The  Prince  sat  back  in  the  carriage  like  a  King  on 
his  throne,  and  the  Freiherr  looked  more  a  Field-Marshal  than 
ever,  and  the  June  sunshine  filled  the  world,  and  everyone  was 
happy — unless,  maybe,  the  dark  young  man,  who  wasn't  going  to 
Hurlingham  this  glorious  afternoon.  The  girl  looked  back;  he 


A  DARK  LANTERN  55 

was  doing  the  same,  standing  stock-still,  watch  in  hand,  staring 
after  the  carriage.  Kitty  smiled.  The  young  man  smiled.  Ah, 
that  was  well — now  all  was  well,  with  all  the  world. 

It  was  the  day  of  the  great  Polo  match,  and  Hurlingham  was 
surely  one  of  the  brightest  spots  upon  all  the  shining  globe. 
They  passed  a  drag  full  of  people  they  knew.  Blanche  Weare 
waved  a  pink  parasol,  and  a  young  man  called  out  that  they  must 
join  forces  on  the  grounds. 

A  mail  phaeton  went  flying  by,  the  young  Duke  of  Worcester 
driving,  with — why,  it  was  Mary  Lattimer  on  the  box  beside  him. 

'They  are  engaged!  You  may  depend  upon  it,  they  are 
engaged,'  said  Lady  Peterborough  in  the  tone  of  one  who  has 
lost  something, — 'and  even  so,  I  don't  know  what  the  Lattimers 
are  thinking  of  to  let  Mary —  Oh,  here's  her  mother  behind,  in 
a  victoria,  with  the  other  girl.  Still,  before  the  thing  is  announced 
— well,  the  world  is  changing.' 

'Why,  it's  almost  like  a  race-meeting,'  said  Waldenstein,  his 
eyes  wandering  with  interest  over  the  throng. 

Certainly  everyone  wore  the  prettiest  possible  things,  the  whole 
place  blossomed  into  colour,  and  shimmered  with  movement  and 
laughter.  On  their  way  to  the  Polo  ground  Lady  Peterborough 
turned  back  to  speak  to  Lady  Lattimer  and  hear  her  worst  fears 
confirmed.  The  best  match  in  England,  too!  Meanwhile  Prince 
Anton  was  saying  aside  to  Kitty:  'I've  something  to  show  you; 
we  must  sit  together.' 

'Yes.' 

'You'll  manage  it?' 

'I?    I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  quite  how ' 

'Don't  you  think  you  could  manage  to  get  lost? — I  mean 
just  separated  a  little  from  your  party;  then  I'd  come  to  find 
you?' 

Kitty,  laughing,  shook  her  head.  It  was  the  kind  of  enterprise 
she  had  no  skill  in.  But  the  instigator,  undaunted,  seemed  to 
have  proposed  to  the  Freiherr  a  plan  of  action  less  simple,  perhaps, 
but  calculated  to  achieve  the  same  end.  The  Secretary  kept  close 
to  the  girl's  side,  till  after  the  seating  was  arranged  to  suit  Lady 
Peterborough;  herself  and  Prince  Anton  in  two  places  that  had 
been  kept  for  her  in  the  middle  of  the  front  row,  Kitty  not  very 
far  off  under  the  wing  of  the  old  Freiherr.  But  all  at  once  this 


56  A  DARK  LANTERN 

gentleman  seemed  to  be  consumed  with  a  desire  to  hold  converse 
with  Lady  Peterborough,  in  whose  favour  until  this  hour  he  had 
stood  high.  Leaving  Kitty  planted  there  near  the  end  of  the 
row,  he  made  his  way  to  Lady  Peterborough.  The  space  between 
the  front  places  and  the  low  guard  that  marked  off  the  onlookers 
from  the  grounds  was  not  great.  But  there  he  stood  in  every- 
body's way — or  bound  to  be  so  in  a  moment  when  the  match 
began — stood  and  talked  to  Lady  Peterborough  with  great  volu- 
bility, until  Anton  sprang  up  and  said  almost  impatiently:  'You'd 
better  sit  here — I'll  get  another  place,'  and  before  remonstrance 
could  be  made  effectual  he  was  at  Kitty's  side. 

The  girl  was  standing  up,  shading  her  eyes  and  looking  across 
the  vivid  green  of  the  Polo  ground,  to  see  if  that  was  Bertie 
Amherst  on  the  restive  roan  pony.  A  light  wind  fluttered  the 
pale  green  ribbons  on  her  white  hat,  and  tossed  out  the  ends  of 
her  lace  scarf.  All  about  her  was  sunshine  and  a  soft  shim- 
mering movement — the  dumb  laughter  of  glad  things  without  a 
voice. 

'  Do  you  know  what  you  are  like  ? '  the  Prince  said.  She  turned 
with  a  smiling  question  in  her  eyes.  'When  I  looked  round  and 
saw  you  standing  here  in  this  wonderful  light,  I  knew  instantly 
what  it  was  you  made  me  think  of.  You  are  like  a  silver 
birch.' 

'I'm  glad  my  white  gown ' 

He  was  smiling  too:  'Really  the  English  colouring  is  something 
quite  apart — and  I  don't  mean  the  colour  of  your  gown.' 

'"Silver  birch"  is  very  pretty,  but  I  don't  think  it  as  good  as 
Lady  Peterborough's  comparison.  Wasn't  it  imaginative  of  her 
to  say  that  young  man's  face  was  "like  a  Dark  Lantern"?' 

'  What  young  man's  ? ' 

'The  one  we  passed  in  the  Square.     Didn't  you  notice?' 

'I'm  afraid  I  was  too  much  occupied  with  a  face  that  is  fortu- 
nately little  enough  like  a  Dark  Lantern.' 

'"Like  a  Dark  Lantern"\'  she  repeated;  'it's  a  phrase  that 
sets  you  thinking — expecting — makes  you  feel  such  wonderful 
possibilities — you  think  of  a  great  shining  that  may  spring  out 
any  moment  from  behind  the  shuttered  dark.' 

'I  don't  like  dark  faces.  I'd  rather  think  of  one  as  fair' — his 
eyes  were  like  kisses  on  her  brow  and  lips — 'I  think  I  never  in 


A  DARK  LANTERN  57 

my  life  saw  anything  so — why,  you  are  as  fair  as  moonlight.'  The 
fairness  was  blotted  with  sudden  colour  as  the  girl  sat  down. 

'Now  they're  beginning.  Look!  that's  Bertie.  Did  you  ever 
see  anyone  ride  so  well?' 

But  Anton  still  stood  there  with  his  back  to  the  polo,  and  his 
eyes  on  the  girl. 

'I've  given  you  your  name.    You  must  find  one  for  me.' 

'You  must  sit  down,'  said  Kitty,  'everybody  else  is  sitting 
down.' 

'When  the  silver  birch  has  told  the  name  of  the  other  tree.' 

She  looked  up  at  the  tall  straight  figure.  For  all  the  throng 
about  them,  he  stood  alone.  The  sun  was  in  her  eyes.  She 
narrowed  them  like  one  descrying  something  on  the  far  horizon. 
'You  are  like  a  poplar  in  a  plain,'  she  said. 

And  then,  although  laughing  he  sat  down,  instead  of  watching 
the  spirited  game  in  front  of  them,  they  talked  on.  He  got  out 
of  her  the  not  easily  ascertained  fact  that  she  not  only  loved 
poetry,  but  tried  to  write  it.  She  was  committed  to  show  him 
something.  Good  heavens!  how  might  that  be!  It  was  all 
about  him.  'I  shan't  be  able  to,  after  all.  I  couldn't,  before 
Lady  Peterborough.  .  .  .' 

'  Bring  something  to  show  me  to-morrow  in  Kensington  Gardens. 
I'll  be  there  at  twelve,  near  the ' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  see  how  we  could  do  that.' 

'Why  not?  What  is  the  advantage  of  being  out  of  Germany  if 
one  mayn't  have  a  little  freedom?' 

Kitty  had  been  thinking  only  of  herself.  She  felt  reproached. 
'You  don't  have  freedom  at  home?'  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  'Everybody  knows  everything  one  does, 
and  a  great  deal  one  hasn't  done.  Nobody  realizes  anything 
about  the  rapture  of  privacy  who  hasn't  lived  in  a  little  German 
Court.' 

'Tell  me  about  it.     What  is  it  like  at  Waldenstein ? ' 

'I'll  tell  you  anything  you  like  to-morrow,  in  Kensington 
Gardens.' 

'Really  I — I  don't  think  it's  a  thing  we  can  do.  You  had 
something  to  show  me.'  She  changed  the  subject  a  little  hurriedly, 
like  one  afraid  of  it.  'What  was  it?' 

'I'll  show  it  you  in  Kensington  Gardens.'    Then,  as  she  said 


58  A  DARK  LANTERN 

nothing,  he  went  on:  'This  isn't  what  I  mean,  but  I  got  this  for 
you  in  Rome  .  .  .  zum  Andenken.'  He  drew  out  of  his  pocket 
a  heart-shaped  reliquary,  delicately  wrought  and  enamelled. 
'Promise  me  you'll  wear  it  ...  always.' 

'How  beautiful!     Yes,  I'll  wear  it  ...  always.' 

She  hung  it  on  her  long  chain  and  hid  it  in  her  gown,  while 
the  light  wind  played  with  her  loosened  scarf.  It  wavered  like  a 
fleecy  cloud  across  the  Prince's  face. 

'Oh,  I'm  sorry.' 

'Don't  hold  it  down  in  your  lap — let  it — the  scarf  is  saying 
danke  schon.'  Although  she  had  not  thanked  him  for  his  gift,  her 
whole  heart  sang  thanksgiving. 

'All  my  life  I  shall  remember  what  the  world  was  like  to-day,' 
she  kept  thinking,  as  she  sat  looking  out  across  the  green  expanse 
at  the  mad  game  going  on.  Men  riding  like  the  wind,  leaning  far 
out  of  their  saddles,  and  with  a  slender  stick,  by  some  gay  miracle, 
conjuring  a  ball  from  out  the  grass,  and  with  a  gallant  gesture 
sending  it  flying,  flying,  like  a  little  white  bird,  up  into  the  blue 
and  far  across  the  green. 

The  very  ponies  were  playing  the  game  with  the  same  mad  zest 
as  the  men,  plunging  after  the  swift  white  speck,  dashing  into  one 
another,  turning  sharply,  darting,  dancing  about  the  goal — a  far 
white  gleam  like  a  flower  in  the  grass. 

Oh,  it  would  be  fun  to  watch  the  ponies,  if  there  were  not  so 
much  in  the  world  beside! 

Oh,  the  band  playing,  and  the  laughter  and  the  summer  in  the 
blood! 

'Whatever  comes — I  shall  have  had  to-day ' 

A  sudden  cry  and  movement,  and  then  no  more  laughter. 

'  What  is  it  ?    What  has  happened  ? ' 

'One  of  the  men  is  down.' 

'Who?' 

'Amherst,'  voices  said  about  them,  and  people  stood  up. 

'  Oh,  poor  Bertie ! '     Kitty  was  on  her  feet. 

Philip  Craybourne  had  pressed  forward  to  see  better.  'That's 
all  right.  They've  stopped  his  pony.  Then,  catching  sight  of 
Kitty  Dereham's  face:  'They're  always  smashing  their  collar- 
bones, those  fellows.  It's  nothing  serious.'  As  Kitty  still  stood 
staring  at  the  men  who  were  carrying  Bertie  off  the  field,  Cray- 


A  DARK  LANTERN  59 

bourne  added  with  an  edge  in  his  voice :  '  Some  very  good  playing 
was  wasted  on  you  to-day.  But  I'll  tell  Bertie  the  part  of  the 
game  that  interested  you.' 

It  was  plain  to  see  that  Lady  Peterborough  was  annoyed — and 
plain  to  those  who  knew  her,  that  the  cause  was  not  Bertie's 
broken  collar-bone. 

She  was  almost  short  with  the  Prince,  and  she  was  distinctly 
snubby  to  the  Freiherr. 

'  Then  since  we  can't  be  of  any  use  to  you  about  Mr.  Amherst, 
you  must  at  least  be  free  of  any  need  to  think  of  us  in  your  anxiety,' 
said  Prince  Anton,  gaily  advertising  his  resolve  not  to  tarry  long 
with  anyone  out  of  temper.  The  hostess  demurred,  but  he 
assured  her:  'Oh,  Worcester  will  give  me  a  lift  back  to  town;' 
and  he  was  off  with  the  Freiherr  at  his  heels. 

'Perhaps  they've  quarrelled!  Mary  is  not  driving  back  with 
the  Duke.'  Lady  Peterborough  groped  for  consolation.  But 
poor  Bertie  got  soundly  rated  for  his  broken  bone.  And  there 
was  still  wrath  left  to  be  expended  upon  Katharine,  who  was 
distinctly  saddened  at  the  summary  leave-taking  of  the  Prince. 

'I  want  you  to  understand,'  said  her  god-mother  as  they  drove 
home,  'I  won't  have  you  making  yourself  conspicuous  with 
Waldenstein.' 

'I  shouldn't  like,'  said  the  girl,  'to  make  myself  conspicuous 
with  anybody.' 

'He  doesn't  realize  that  a  girl  may  suffer  by  having  people 
staring  as  they  did  this  afternoon.' 

How  they  would  stare  if  she  were  seen  in  Kensington  Gardens 
— and  yet  it  would  be  foretaste  of  heaven  to  walk  with  him  there 
alone.  But  people  wouldn't  understand;  they  would  say  horrid 
things. 

Why,  there  was  that  woman  again  in  a  hansom — the  woman 
Katharine  and  Lord  Peterborough  had  seen  with  her  father's 
double.  The  face  broke  into  smiles;  the  lady  bowed.  It  was 
Mrs.  Heathcote. 

The  girl  was  very  silent  the  rest  of  the  way  home. 

That  night  she  sent  a  note  to  Prince  Anton  to  say  that  she 
would  not  be  walking  in  the  Gardens  the  next  day,  but  praying 
him  to  understand  and  to  forgive  her. 

All  the  evening  she  sat  waiting  for  an  answer  of  some  sort. 


fc>  A  DARK  LANTERN 

None  came. 

Meeting  him,  out  of  town,  at  the  Prime  Minister's  garden-party 
the  next  day,  Kitty  seized  a  moment  to  make  clear  that,  for  all  she 
did  not  accept  the  tryst,  she  understood  how  a  man  in  Prince 
Anton's  position  must  long  for  a  little  privacy.  She  showed 
herself  so  eagerly  sympathetic  with  that  point  of  view,  that  his  first 
coldness  to  her  melted. 

'Nothing  is  worth  having  that  all  the  world  knows  about,'  he 
said  in  return,  and  began  something,  half  laughing,  about  'the 
vulgar  eye,'  when  his  hostess  carried  him  off. 

As  Lady  Peterborough  was  taking  her  leave,  the  Prince  made 
opportunity  to  say  to  Kitty: 

'You  remember  I  am  dining  with  you  to-morrow.' 

'You  don't  think  I  had  forgotten.' 

'Let  me  see,'  he  reflected,  'what  was  the  hour?' 

'It  isn't  dinner,  it's  only  what  Lady  Peterborough  calls  "a  cold 
collection"  before  "Tannhauser."' 

'I  know.     She  said  half -past  six,  didn't  she?' 

'Yes,  half-past  six.' 

'Suppose  I  forget  the  precise  time' — he  lowered  his  voice — 
'and  come  a  quarter  of  an  hour  earlier.  Will  you  be  down? 

'Oh  yes.' 

***** 

'Lady  Peterborough  has  come  in  late.  But  she  is  dressing  in 
a  whirlwind,'  Kitty  greeted  him  breathless.  He  still  held  her 
hand.  The  girl  tried  to  think  quickly  of  something  else  to  say, 
since  he  did  not  speak.  'What  was  it  you  were  going  to  show 
me  in  Kensington  Gardens?' 

'You  never  came.' 

'But  you  know  how  I  wanted  to.' 

'People  do  what  they  really  want  to.' 

'Girls  can't.' 

'Oh  yes,  they  can.    My  faith  in  you  is  a  little ' 

'Don't  say  that.'     She  could  easily  have  cried. 

He  lifted  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

It  comforted  her  vastly,  though  it  was  his  habit.  He  kissed 
Lady  Peterborough's  hand  too,  she  thought  a  little  resentfully. 
But  he  did  not  let  the  girl's  fingers  go;  while  with  the  free  hand 
he  felt  in  his  pocket. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  61 

'What  I  wanted  to  show  you  is  only  a  foolish  little  photograph. 

He  drew  her  to  the  sofa,  still  keeping  her  hand. 

'What  place  is  this?' 

'Our  shooting-box.  These  woods  go  on  for  miles — the  river's 
just  here.' 

'  It's  charmingly  pretty.    Is  there  a  picture  of  Waldenste  in  too  ? ' 

'No.  This  is  the  place  I  care  about.  You'd  like  it  too.  I 
see  you  there.' 

He  had  said  that  twice. 

Would  the  honeymoon  be  here? — was  that  his  meaning? 
Surely,  for  the  velvet  voice  went  on: 

'I'll  tell  you  what  the  days  would  be  like,'  and  behold  she  was 
in  every  hour!  Easy  for  her  inexperience  to  mistake  German 
sentiment  (no  less  excellent  and  beautiful  for  being  a  common 
possession  among  the  Teutons)  for  a  thing  as  rare  and  strange, 
as  would  be  poetic  effusiveness  about  woods  and  waters,  in  the 
mouth  of  a  young  Englishman  to-day. 

So  he  was  a  poet  too,  this  Prince  of  Breitenlohe-Waldenstein, 
singer  as  well  as  soldier,  like  Montrose  and  Raleigh,  like  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  and  like  that  Lovelace  who  wrote  to  Lucasta  on 
going  to  the  wars,  and  from  prison  to  Althea. 

The  girl  sat  in  a  golden  dream  listening  to  the  tale  of  the  hours 
told  with  extraordinary  charm,  albeit  with  an  eye  on  the  door. 
And  she  was  there!  at  this  place  in  Hungary;  hidden  in  the  forest; 
had  seen  the  sun's  uprising,  and  now,  the  day  far  spent,  came 
riding  at  the  Prince's  side,  out  of  the  thick  fir-wood,  where  already 
it  was  dusk,  to  find  the  little  chalet  still  shining  in  the  warm  sun- 
set. 'We  would  send  the  horses  on  before  with  the  grooms,' 
he  had  said,  'and  we  would  wait  till  they  were  out  of  sight.  And 
then  we  take  hands — and  now  we  go  home.'  He  bent  down — • 
nearer.  He  kissed  her.  She  closed  her  eyes  a  second.  'And 
the  best  part  of  it  all' — his  breath  was  on  her  face — 'we  shall 
be  so  far  from  the  prying  world  .  .  .  quite  hidden  in  the  heart  of 
the  fir- wood.' 

'Yes.' 

'Could  you  be  happy  in  a  love  that  was  everyone's  property?' 

'I  never  thought.' 

'Of  course  you  couldn't.  It  is  spoilt  the  moment  it  is  shared 
with  others.'  He  drew  away. 


62  A  DARK  LANTERN 

The  mere  thought  seemed  to  chill  him. 

Or  was  it  Lady  Peterborough's  coming  along  the  hall? 
***** 

Twice  in  the  ten  days  that  had  followed  the  evening  at  Lady 
Wick's,  Kitty  had  seen  on  the  hall  table  at  Hill  Street,  where 
seldom  a  visiting  card  appeared,  one  bearing  the  inscription 

Mr.  Garth  Vincent, 

and  written  underneath  in  pencil,  46  Cavendish  Square. 

'Who  is  your  new  friend?'  she  asked  her  father,  taking  up  the 
second  card,  on  Sunday  night,  as  they  went  in  to  dinner. 

'No  friend  of  mine.     Who  is  this?'  he  asked  Gibbs. 

Gibbs  straightened  his  important  back,  and  said:  'The  gentle- 
man asked  for  Miss  Dereham,  sir.' 

Kitty's  wide  eyes  disclaimed  all  knowledge  of  him.  'What 
did  he  want  ? ' 

'He  didn't  say,  miss.' 

'What  was  he  like?' 

'A  dark  gentleman  he  was,  miss.* 

'  Old  or  young  ? ' 

'Young,  miss,  and ' 

'Well?' 

'Rather  sharp-spoken,  miss.' 

'  How  sharp-spoken  ?    What  did  he  say  ? ' 

'He  asked  when  you  would  be  here.' 

'That  doesn't  sound  so  very  sharp.' 

'No,  miss,  but  he  said  it  sharp.  Asked  me  if  you  had  got 
the  other  card.  What  had  I  done  with  it!'  Gibbs'  dignity  was 
obviously  ruffled  at  memory  of  the  encounter. 

Her  father  chaffed  her  unmercifully.  This  was  evidently  some 
friend  she  wanted  to  conceal  from  Lady  Peterborough's  lynx  eyes. 
He  wasn't  sure  that  even  an  indulgent  parent  like  himself  could 
connive  at 

She  begged  him  in  French  not  to  say  such  things  before  a  ser- 
vant; she  was  not  sure  of  Gibbs'  sense  of  humour — perhaps  she 
meant  Colonel  Dereham's. 

Doubt  of  other  qualities  in  her  father  was  certainly  gaining 
ground.  Although  she  fought  against  these  realizations — fought 
most  of  all  against  the  vague  mortification  the  name  Heathcote 


A  DARK  LANTERN  63 

conjured  up — her  confidences  had  been  checked.  She  had  not 
told  her  father  what  she  had  meant  to  about  the  Prince,  and  the 
two  men  had  not  encountered.  A  meeting  seemed  difficult  to 
arrange  with  only  Kitty  apparently  desiring  it,  and  Lady  Peter- 
borough so  full  of  devices  for  entertaining  the  Prince  in  more 
festive  fashion.  They  had  gone  off  this  afternoon  to  the  second 
day's  sale  at  the  great  Bazaar,  held  under  royal  patronage,  and 
where  Lady  Peterborough  had  a  stall,  assisted  by  an  army  of 
pretty  women. 

Kitty,  fighting  against  a  depressing  summer  cold,  was  trying 
over  the  music  of  a  song — though  she  had  been  allowed  to  stay  at 
home  for  the  express  purpose  of  lying  down,  that  she  might  be 
in  better  case  for  the  dinner-party  that  evening  and  the  ball  to 
follow. 

Six  o'clock.  She  really  must  go  away  and  rest  now,  or  Lady 
Peterborough  would  find  her  there  and  scold  her.  The  door 
opened.  Heavens!  Could  she  be  back  already? 

The  butler's  voice:  'Mr.  Garth  Vincent.' 

Why,  that,  the  girl  remembered,  that  was  the  name  of  the 
mysterious  Hill  Street  visitor.  Coming  out  from  behind  the  piano 
screen,  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  the  dark  young  student, 
who  had  found  her  a  seat  at  Lady  Wick's  crush,  and  shown  his 
Dark-Lantern  face  so  often  since,  about  the  Square  and  at  the 
Opera.  But  why  was  he  here? 

'How  do  you  do!'  She  shook  hands,  yet  more  dumbfounded 
to  see  the  unexpected  visitor  regarding  her  with  unsmiling,  in- 
quisitorial eyes. 

'Why  did  you  give  me  the  Hill  Street  address?'  he  demanded 
without  preamble. 

'Why  not?'  she  said,  suddenly  at  sea. 

'For  the  good  reason  that  it  isn't  yours.' 

'It  is  mine.'    She  faced  him. 

He  simply  looked  at  her.  She  felt  her  colour  rise.  His  direct- 
ness had  wiped  out  the  enormity  of  his  own  behaviour,  in  showing 
the  insincerity  of  hers. 

'My  father's  house  is  in  Hill  Street.' 

'So  are  other  houses — where  you  don't  live.' 

It  was  no  use.  She  must  tell  the  truth  to  this  odd  creature. 
'I  did  it  to — to  save  explanations.' 


64  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Well,  you  see  it  hasn't  saved  them.  It's  brought  me  here.' 
He  sat  down. 

Kitty  stared  at  him,  and  then,  clutching  at  her  self-possession, 
said  with  dignity:  'I  don't  see  people  here  that — that  Lady  Peter- 
borough doesn't  know.' 

'  Her  not  knowing  me  can  be  remedied  whenever  you  like.* 

Kitty  began  to  laugh  a  little  hysterically. 

'Oh,  dear,  if  she  heard  you!' 

The  contingency  appeared  to  have  no  interest  for  him. 

'Will  you  see  me  in  Hill  Street,  as  you  said  you  would?' 

'I  didn't  say  I  would' — she  was  quickly  grave  again — 'and  I 
can't.' 

'Why  not?'  He  leaned  forward  and  fixed  her  with  his  curious 
eyes. 

Kitty  stood  up.  'I  think  I  must  ask  you,  please,  to  go.'  Still 
he  looked  at  her  with  that  intent  expression,  but  not  as  if  he  had 
heard,  and  he  remained  seated.  'It  will  be  better,'  she  said,  'if 
Lady  Peterborough  doesn't  find  you  here.' 

'Better  for  who?' 

'Better  for  you.' 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

'Even  better  for  me,'  she  added  on  an  impulse. 

'  Then  come  to  Hill  Street ! '    He  was  on  his  feet. 

The  impertinence  of  this  young  man!  really,  it  took  the  breath. 

'Why  should  you  think  I  would  do  that?'  the  girl  asked  with 
heightened  colour. 

'You  know  why.' 

(Was  that  his  way  of  saying:  You  encouraged  me — smiled,  and 
made  eyes — you  know  you  did?  Ohf) 

'I  know  why?  I  beg  your  pardon '  Kitty  held  her  head 

uncommonly  high .  'I  don't  know  the  least  in  the  world.' 

He  was  about  to  speak,  as  deliberately  he  sat  down  again. 
Something  in  his  aspect  made  her  nerves  shrink  at  what  might  be 
coming.  Hastily  she  flung  up  a  barrier. 

'It  isn't  worth  discussing  Hill  Street  or  anything  else,  as  I'm 
going  away.'  She  saw  his  figure  stiffen,  as  under  attack. 

'Where?' 

'To— abroad.' 

'When?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  65 

'Soon.' 

'How  long  do  you  stay?'    He  was  frowning  at  the  floor. 

'I  shall  not  come  back — for  some  time.' 

Kitty  caught  her  breath  when  he  lifted  a  heavy  look.  The 
long  shining  eyes  were  bloodshot. 

'  When  you  do  come  back — you'll  see  me  ? '  he  said. 

'It  will  be  quite  impossible.' 

The  effect  on  him  was  of  a  kind  to  make  the  obscure  nervous- 
ness that  had  seized  her  early  in  the  interview,  gain  upon  her — 
thrusting  her  rudely  into  a  world  radically  different  from  the  one, 
draped  and  garlanded,  where  she  had  lived  these  late  enchanted 
days.  Here  suddenly  was  something  not  only  bare,  but  raw  and 
rather  terrible.  She  repeated  very  gently:  'It  is  quite  impossible. 
You  see,  Mr. ' 

'Garth  Vincent  is  my  name,'  he  interrupted  bitterly,  'but  I 
don't  see.' 

She  tried  to  speak,  felt  sorely  her  need  of  self-defence,  remem- 
bering— the  things  he  remembered,  but  found  no  word. 

'Then  there's  nothing  to  hope  for,'  he  said. 

'Oh  yes,  yes,  so  many — other  things.' 

'I've  tried  them  all,'  he  returned  quietly. 

'You  can't  have  done  that.  You're  too  young.'  Oh,  il  iie 

would  only  go 'There  are  other  things' — he  looked  up — 

'but'  .  .  .  she  was  trembling  unaccountably  .  .  .  'but  they  aren't 
any  of  them  here.' 

'Nor  at  Hill  Street?'  he  said  with  a  curious  persistence  in  the 
hope  he  had  hugged  for  days. 

4  jSlo;'  at  a  look  from  him  she  added,  'I  don't  see  how  you  could 
think » 

'Oh  yes,  you  do.' 

A  compliment  in  any  other  mouth,  this  implication  of  miracle- 
working  charm.  From  this  man's  lips  the  phrase  fell  like  a  whip. 
Humiliation  rushed  upon  her,  seeing  in  his  face  this  further  wit- 
ness to  those  looks  and  smiles  she  had  flung  out  in  the  fulness 
of  an  overbrimming  joy — very  much  as  at  the  Nice  carnival,  the 
winter  before,  she  had  tossed  out  of  her  carriage  flowers  and  con- 
fetti aimed  gaily  at  the  bolder  masques.  But  to  dress  her  actions 
up  in  simile,  was  not  to  hide  their  ugliness.  She  had  encour- 
aged this  impossible  young  man.  Intoxicated  with  youth  and 

5 


66  A  DARK  LANTERN 

success,  she  had  flirted  with  him,  just  as  though  she  had  been 
that  horrid  Hilda  Carey  or — oh  dear  I  Well,  she  was  reaping 
her  reward  in  this  difficult  hour. 

Quite  suddenly  he  dropped  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  sat  so, 
for  several  seconds,  with  hidden  face. 

'Please  forgive  me,'  she  said,  leaving  much  unsaid  that  was  yet 
for  once  courageously  recognised,  amply  admitted.  'I'm  sorry.' 

'No,  you're  not.' 

'I  am,  I  am.' 

'It's  a  game  you'll  often  play.'  But  he  dropped  his  hands  and 
stood  up. 

A  noise  in  the  hall.  Mimi's  bark.  Were  they  home  from  the 
Bazaar?  From  the  swift  excursion  of  the  thought,  her  attention 
came  back  to  the  uncouth  figure,  awkward,  wretched,  angry  yet 
halting  there,  like  a  creature  too  maimed  to  run.  Katharine  saw 
suddenly  exactly  how  Lady  Peterborough  would  view  this  unusual 
apparition  in  her  drawing-room.  As  to  the  possibility  of  her 
god-mother  knowing  his  errand — no,  no!  A  hot  shrinking  filled 
the  girl.  And  Anton!  On  the  eve  of  becoming  a  Princess  of 
Breitenlohe-Waldenstein  here  she  was  discussing  with  a  young 
man  of  this  sort 

'Good-bye,  Mr.  Vincent.'  From  leagues  on  leagues  of  dis- 
tance: 'I  forgive  you  your  rudeness  and  your 

'My  damned  impudence.' 

No  waiting  for  reply.     No  other  word.     He  was  gone. 

'Who  is  that  bounder?'  said  Bertie,  corning  in. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PEOPLE  had  begun  to  talk  of  Breitenlohe-Waldenstein's  infatua- 
tion for  the  English  girl.  When  he  followed  her  to  London,  they 
inquired  of  everyone  but  Lady  Peterborough,  what  on  earth  that 
old  woman  could  be  thinking  of.  Lord  Peterborough  shrugged, 
and  said  it  was  a  question  that  he  for  his  part  never  asked;  but 
he  watched  Kitty  with  curiosity,  not  to  say  concern. 

She  herself  was  far  from  ignorant  of  the  difficulties  in  her  way. 
She  held  not  only  the  current  social  views  on  the  subject  of  rank, 
but  held  them  emphasized,  illuminated,  by  the  little  hole-and- 
corner  historic  sense,  that  found  poetry  and  romance  in  the  family 
history  of  a  small  portion  of  the  community.  If  it  meant  much 
to  her  chivalry-loving  soul  to  think  of  the  Schloss  built  on  the 
mountain  crag  by  crusading  princes  of  Waldenstein  blood — if  it 
was  a  fine  and  fitting  thing  that  one's  loves  should  come  of  a  race 
of  Kings — it  was  troubling  too,  if  you  yourself  were  otherwise 
descended.  How,  even  in  this  astonishing  age,  when  few  things 
old  stood  firm,  how  get  over  the  ancient  barrier  between  blood 
merely  gentle  and  blood  royal!  How  was  it  to  be  done?  for  done 
it  was  to  be.  Not  by  her — Fate's  affair.  That  thought  alone 
made  it  possible  to  draw  quiet  breath. 

There  were  elements  in  the  situation  that  she  knew  she  had 
not  yet  grasped.  But  these  were  not  the  things  that  would  have 
afforded  a  more  experienced  mind  food  for  cavil  or  for  wonder. 
That  Anton  should  plot  and  plan  for  hours  to  gain  five  minutes 
alone  with  her,  seemed  to  the  girl  not  to  call  for  explanation  in 
a  lover.  That  since  their  secret  understanding  he  behaved  so 
differently  to  her,  so  indifferently  almost,  when  others  were  by, 
although  the  fact  wounded  her  pride,  it  was  not  to  her  thinking 
Anton's  fault,  but  other  people's.  If  the  'talk'  had  reached  even 

67 


68  A  DARK  LANTERN 

her  ears,  more  no  doubt  had  come  to  him.  She  had  no  difficulty 
in  attributing  his  recent  bearing  to  her  before  the  world,  to  the 
accumulated  irritation  of  a  sensitive  spirit,  restive  under  the 
menace  of  the  vulgar  eye,  intent  on  respite  from  the  entailed 
publicity  of  a  high  position.  Explaining  so,  things  otherwise 
inexplicable,  she  held  herself  ready  to  aid  and  to  abet  him.  A 
proposal  to  conceal  a  relation  of  this  sort  to  any  other  man, 
would  have  stirred  her  critical  sense,  made  her  ask  questions  of 
herself  and  him.  But  with  respect  to  Anton,  temporary  secrecy 
seemed  a  wholly  natural  imposition.  While  she  would  have 
shrunk  from  hiding  the  lover,  she  was  ready  to  hide  the  Prince, 
considered  that  she  perfectly  understood  the  ground  of  his  implied 
but  unmistakable  demand  for  silence.  Of  course  he  meant, 
till  every  detail  should  be  arranged. 

But  he  asked  strange  things  of  her — clandestine  meetings  that 
she  did  not  even  seriously  consider,  so  impossible  did  they  seem. 

'You  don't  a  bit  understand,'  she  said  to  him  once,  half  laugh- 
ing, half  in  tears.  'Men  are  so  ignorant.' 

'Oh,  they  are!' 

'Yes,  of  what's  expected  of  a  girl.'  Then,  as  her  quick  spirit 
saw  he  was  about  to  urge  again,  'One  can't  do  that!' 

'You're  not  in  France.' 

'One  can't  go  off  and  meet  someone  alone,  even  in  England. 

People  wouldn't  realize '  She  looked  at  him  with  changing 

colour.  'I  should  have  thought  it  wasn't  possible  in  Germany 
either.' 

'Oh,  people  like  us  do  as  they  please.' 

But  he  felt  so  little  sure  of  his  ground,  that  he  hesitated,  even, 
if  the  truth  were  told,  a  little  in  awe  of  the  unsmirched  soul  of 
the  girl.  Too  accomplished  a  squire  of  dames  not  to  know 
that  the  art  of  love  is  the  art  of  preparation,  he  nevertheless 
began  to  be  restive  at  the  passing  of  the  days;  at  the  shrinking 
dislike  she  showed  of  certain  books  he  lent  her,  books  of  a  dis- 
tinct educational  quality. 

'No,  I  didn't  like  it,  but' — half  apologetically — 'I'm  afraid  I 
didn't  understand  it  very  well,'  she  said  of  a  volume  of  perfervid 
poetry  that  he  had  counted  on  for  its  effect. 

The  last  time  that  he  suggested  a  way  of  meeting  tmter  vier 
Augen,  and  she  had  only  sighed  and  shaken  her  head:  'But 


A  DARK  LANTERN  69 

we  are  so  discreet,'  he  said,  less  by  way  of  comment  on  the 
past  than  promise  for  the  future.  Not  seeing  that  she  wholly 
missed  his  meaning,  he  went  on:  'We  have  been  too  long-suffer- 
ing.' 

'Dreadfully  long-suffering,'  she  agreed. 

'How  long  shall  we  be  "suffering"?'  but  he  had  his  laugh 
alone. 

She  was  trying  to  find  courage  to  make  answer.     'Till ' 

'Well?'  he  persisted,  watching  her. 

'Till  we  set  out  for  the  shooting-box?'  she  hazarded,  hot  with 
blushes. 

'Ah!' — he  seemed  to  be  thinking.     'Well — when  is  that  to  be?' 

'When  do  you  think?' 

'It  cannot  be  too  soon.' 

The  words  set  all  the  world  to  whirling.  'There  will  be  a 
good  deal  to  do,'  she  said  with  a  sense  of  breathlessness. 

'Will  there?' 

'Well,  you  know  girls  have  to  have  trousseaux  and  that  kind 
of  thing.' 

'Oh,  must  they?'  for  all  the  world  as  though  he  had  never 
heard  of  these  commonplaces.  Soon  thereafter  he  took  his 
leave. 

Again  and  again,  when  about  to  make  things  clear,  he  caught 
himself  up.  There  was  an  effect  of  something  proud  about  the 
girl  that  held  at  bay — something,  in  spite  of  the  romantic  element 
in  her  character,  that  produced  an  impression  of  coldness.  The 
virginal  will  have  this  effect  upon  the  sensual  man.  It  disquiets 
him.  Often  he  will  seek  refuge  from  it  in  the  opposite  extreme. 

And  so  one  morning  a  note  of  farewell: 

'I  must  report  myself  at  Berlin.' 

#  #  •*  #  * 

She  wrote  to  him  anxious,  but  trusting  little  letters,  and  got 
back  tardy,  non-committal  answers  that  any  eye  might  see. 
Without  a  doubt,  Kitty  thought,  he  was  in  some  trouble,  family 
or  State.  Being  who  he  was,  he  was  one  of  those  few  to  whom 
no  general  rule  applies.  This  thought  was  the  key  to  her  whole 
relation  to  him. 

But,  oh,  the  waiting  was  hard.    Eight  months  dragged  by. 

She  wrote  to  him,  enclosing  her   latest   photograph.     Was 


70  A  DARK  LANTERN 

he  going  to  Rome  again  this  spring,  or  would  London  see 
him?  And  would  he  send  her  the  long-promised  picture  of 
himself  ? 

He  would  'bring  it,'  came  the  glorious  answer. 

And  in  April  he  did.  If  he  had  had  'trouble,'  no  hint  of  it 
hung  about  him  now.  Nor  yet  about  his  picture,  a  delightful 
water-colour  sketch  doing  the  Prussian  uniform  gay  justice,  and 
the  handsome  face  no  less. 

And  he  was  just  the  same.  No,  more  adorable — and  again 
the  sun  shone  and  all  the  waiting  and  the  Winter  were  forgot. 

Just  one  cloud  on  the  horizon  that  Kitty's  eyes  could  see. 
Colonel  Dereham  was  ill;  certainly  too  'seedy'  at  present  to  pay 
his  respects  to,  or  even  to  receive  the  Prince  of  Breitenlohe- 
Waldenstein.  His  old  occasional  headaches  were  grown  chronic. 
There  were  times  when  the  girl  became  a  prey  to  fears  too  dark 
for  formulating — days  when  he  shut  himself  up  and  refused  to 
see  her,  or  even  Mrs.  Heathcote.  For  as  time  went  on  there 
was  less  ceremony  about  this  friendship.  But  when  he  did  re- 
appear, although  he  sometimes  looked  ill  enough,  still  he  was 
usually  cheerful,  in  his  old  light  way,  and  his  daughter  would  be 
reassured.  He  had  an  inveterate  dislike  to  explanations,  or  any 
sort  of  soul-searching.  If  he  resented  the  asking  of  questions, 
even  by  Kitty,  he  certainly  seldom  put  them  himself.  The  more 
striking,  therefore,  his  unprefaced  demand  one  day — 

'When  are  you  going  to  marry?' 

'Why,  I  ...  I  don't  know.' 

'Don't  they  ask  you? — the  idiots.' 

'Not  all  of  the  idiots,  father  dear.' 

'Humph!     I  know  of  three  who  do.' 

' Do  you ? '  a  little  wickedly;  'I  wonder  if  I  know  them.' 

'Bertie  Amherst,  Sir  Philip  Craybourne,  and  Hastings.' 

'Oh,  those ' 

'Well,  what  are  you  waiting  for?  Aren't  they  splendid  enough 
for  you  ? ' 

'They  aren't  so  very  splendid.' 

'They're  three  of  the  best  matches  in  England.' 

'Y-yes  I  suppose  they  are.' 

'You're  waiting  to  fall  in  love,  I  suppose.' 

'Oh  no,' — a  little  guiltily, — 'I'm  not  waiting  for  that.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  71 

'For  what  then?' 

She  stood  silent. 

How  could  she  say  for  what  she  was  waiting? 

'I  don't  think  it  will  do  you  any  good,  Kitty'  (he  was  uncom- 
monly serious  for  him) — 'to  have  people  saying  you  are  keeping 
up  a  desperate  flirtation  with  Breitenlohe-Waldenstein.' 

'Do  you  hear  people  say  so?'  Unconsciously  her  emphasis 
measured  great  distance,  for  the  Heathcote  woman  held  the 
farther  end  of  the  tape. 

'Well,  they  do.  And  it's  the  second  season  they've  said  so. 
Won't  do  you  any  good,  my  dear.' 

Another  time  when  some  society  paper  reported  at  length  a 
bal  masque  at  Peterborough  House,  with  a  significant  reference 
to  Prince  Anton  and  Miss  Dereham  as  Lancelot  of  the  Lake  and 
the  lily  maid  of  Astolat:  'I  don't  know  what  that  old  Peterborough 
woman  is  thinking  about,'  repeated  Colonel  Dereham  with  an 
ill-humour  very  unusual  in  the  most  amiable  of  men. 

More  to  the  point  was  what  Lord  Peterborough  thought.  For 
the  first  time  in  thirty  years  he  precipitated  a  scene  with  his  wife. 
It  ended  stormily.  He  would  speak  to  Waldenstein.  That 
threat  reduced  Lady  Peterborough  to  terms.  Let  him  wait  for 
twenty-four  hours.  It  was  far  easier  to  wait  than  to  forge  ahead. 
The  huge  effort  had  exhausted  the  old  man's  scant  energy.  Yes, 
he  would  wait  twenty-four  hours. 

He  and  Katharine  avoided  each  other.  She  knew  he  dis- 
approved of  her,  and  he  knew  she  knew.  No  need  of  words  there. 

But  between  Waldenstein  and  Lady  Peterborough,  a  long 
conference  behind  closed  doors. 

Again  after  dinner  she  took  him  away  to  her  boudoir  to  show 
him  some  of  her  new  bindings.  But  almost  at  once  a  servant 
came  to  Katharine  in  the  drawing-room:  'Her  Ladyship  asks 
you,  please,  to  bring  her  your  book,  miss — the  book  that  came 
home  from  the  binders  yesterday.' 

'Which  one?     Oh,  the  Prosper  Me'rime'e?' 

'Yes,  miss,'  said  the  footman,  relieved  at  not  having  to  tackle 
the  name.  Kitty  went  with  the  volume  in  her  hand  to  the  pink 
and  white  room  opening  on  to  the  conservatory.  Only  Anton 
was  there.  She  hesitated  on  the  threshold. 

'I  had  a  message  from ' 


72  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Yes,  it's  all  right.'  He  drew  her  in  and  shut  the  door — looked 
at  her  a  moment,  coming  closer  as  he  did  so,  till  suddenly  he 
caught  her  to  him.  His  action  had  the  air  of  an  overmastering 
impulse.  Yet  he  was  not  so  carried  away  but  he  could  wonder, 
as  his  arms  closed  round  her,  where  she  got  her  flame-like  up- 
rightness— there  seemed  nothing  firm  enough  in  her  physique  to 
serve  as  framework  for  so  tall,  reed-straight  a  creature.  She 
was  one  of  those  girls  whose  slender  bones  seem  to  lack  hardness 
while  they  have  elasticity.  He  laid  a  hand  on  her  waist — absurdly 
small.  Wrists  so  slight;  and  all  so  pliant.  The  youngness  of 
her  was  like  the  youngness  of  a  child.  He  kissed  her. 

'Why  did  you  leave  me,  if  you  love  me  like  this?'  she  whis- 
pered. 'You've  never  told  me  why.' 

'It  was  because  I  loved  you  like  this,  that  I  left  you.' 

'I  don't  understand  the  least  in  the  world.' 

'No,  dear  angel,  of  course  you  don't.  Dear,  dear  little  inno- 
cent!' He  kissed  the  hand  on  his  sleeve,  lifted  the  other,  took 
the  green  and  silver  book  out  of  her  grasp,  laid  it  on  the  writing- 
table,  and  fell  to  kissing  the  small  fingers  that  had  held  it,  kissing 
them  one  by  one.  'But  Lady  Peterborough  understands  per- 
fectly. Ah,  that's  a  clever  woman.  But  then  she  knows  the 
life.  You  see,  my  beautiful,  there  have  been  great  difficulties.' 
(Just  as  she  had  guessed!)  'You  can't  conceive  what  huge 
difficulties — Lady  Peterborough  realizes.' 

'Yes,  yes,'  the  girl  protested,  'I  can  understand  all  that  better 
than  you  think.' 

He  had  put  her  into  a  great  chair  and  sat  upon  the  arm,  draw- 
ing her  close  against  him.  '  Well,  if  you  can  understand,  so  much 
the  better.  It  hasn't  been  easy.  Far  from  it.' 

'Dear  Anton,'  she  murmured.  He  had  gone  through  harass- 
ing scenes  at  Waldenstein  for  her  sake — perhaps,  who  knows, 
they  are  making  him  leave  the  army;  even  give  up  his  rank! 
'Tell  me  about  it,'  she  whispered. 

'Well '  but  he  fell  to  murmuring  endearments  in  caress- 
ing German.  Suddenly  he  got  up  and  ran  his  white  fingers 
through  his  upstanding  brush  of  yellow  hair.  'I'm  frightfully 
in  love,  you  know,'  he  said  argumentatively.  She  smiled.  Did 
he  think  it  necessary  to  point  that  out?  'They'll  say  I've  lost 
my  head.'  (Poor  Prince!  to  have  even  at  this  moment  to  think 


A  DARK  LANTERN  73 

of  'they.')  'My  only  defence  is:  I  can't  help  it.  C'est  plus  fort 
que  moi.  I  can't  let  you  go.' 

'Of  course  not.' 

'No,  it  isn't  exactly  "of  course,"'  he  said,  smiling;  'but  I  can't 
let  you  go.'  Again  he  kissed  her:  brow,  eyes,  'Mundwinckel.' 
'But  you'll  understand  and  make  things  easy — help  me  all  you 
can.' 

'Indeed  I  will.' 

'You  won't  forget  that  I've  made  great  sacrifices  for  youi 
sake ' 

'I  will  never  forget  that.' 

He  stood  directly  under  the  electric  light  by  the  great  green 
marble  mantelpiece.  His  fine  fresh-coloured  complexion  gleamed 
pink  and  satiny  in  the  strong  illumination;  his  hair  looked  like 
spun  glass,  and  the  defiant  upturned  moustache,  catching  the 
downward  flooding  light,  seemed  more  metallic-golden  than 
ever. 

And  he  loved  her — he  was  her  knight,  this  splendid  creature. 

'The  great  thing  (you'll  agree  with  me  in  this,  my  beautiful) 
is  to  have  no  delay.' 

'No.' 

'And  you — you'll  like  living  in  Hungary?'  he  asked,  after  a 
second's  hesitation. 

'I  shan't  mind  where  we  live.'  As  he  looked  at  her  reflectively 
she  added:  'But  it  would  be  delightful  to  be  part  of  the  year  at 
Waldenstein,  wouldn't  it?' 

'No,'  he  said  with  decision.     'It's  no  use  to  begin  that ' 

'Our  English  Princess  is  so  seldom  there.' 

'But  my  mother  is,  always.' 

'Won't  she  like  me?' 

Transported  to  the  Waldenstein  circle,  he  answered  absently. 
'She  may  not  care  about — about  this  kind  of  arrangement.' 

The  girl  half  rose.  'What  is  it  you  mean,  what  "arrange- 
ment"?' 

'Why,  a — what  I'm  proposing.  A  private  marriage.'  Some- 
thing in  her  eyes  made  him  add  hurriedly:  'You  said  you  could 
understand  my  position.' 

'You — you  mean  "private"  just  for  the  present — till  you  are 
able  to  announce  it?' 


74  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'My  dear  child,  you  see,  unfortunately,  you  aren't — you  have 
every  grace  except  rank.  We  can't  get  over  that.' 

'Can't  get  over  it?' 

'No.     And  we,  in  Germany,  are  great  sticklers  for ' 

'But  you  said — oh,  what  was  it  you  said? — the  great  huge 
difficulties  were  got  over.  What  did  you  mean  ?  Please,  please 
speak  plain.  I — it  hurts  me  so  dreadfully ' 

She  stood  up,  facing  him  with  bewildered  eyes. 

'It's  all  right,'  he  said  soothingly,  with  a  hand  out  to  bring 
her  back;  'I  shall  always  love  you  best.' 

She  drew  away  shaking  with  a  sudden  cold  excitement.  '  Does 
a  private  marriage  with  me  mean ' 

'Everybody  will  understand  it's  all  right,'  he  repeated.  'No- 
body will  think  any  the  less .  Why,  it's  been  done  in  your 

own  Royal  Family.' 

'You  don't  mean — Anton,  say  you  don't  mean  I  may  live  to 
see  another  woman  your  real  wife.' 

'If  ever — probably  never — in  any  case  you  would  be  my  real 
wife,  too.' 

'Too!     Too?' 

Devil  take  the  unlucky  little  word,  he  thought.  It  stung  like 
a  wasp. 

She  had  shrunk  back  from  it  away,  away  to  the  middle  of  the 
room,  with  both  hands  up,  barrier- wise,  to  shield  her  wound; 
and  a  pitiful  young  face  looked  over,  only  half  crediting  the 
extent  of  her  hurt. 

'Don't  look  like  that?'  he  prayed;  'you  make  me  miserable.' 

As  slowly,  doubtfully,  he  came  towards  her  with  outstretched 
hand,  his  signet  caught  the  light.  Her  wide  eyes  fixed  upon  it. 
Old  words  rose  up  above  the  chaos  in  her  mind:  'Knight,  thou 
hast  done  thyself  great  folly,  for  this  shield  ought  not  to  be  borne, 
but  by  him  that  shall  have  no  peer  that  liveth.' 

' you  make  me  miserable,'  he  was  saying. 

' I — I  don't  want  to  make  you  miserable  "too." '  Her  voice  was 
so  faint,  he  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  fall.  'Don't,'  she  cried, 
shrinking,  and  with  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  ring,  as  though  it  carried 
an  evil  spell  newly  apprehended.  'I — I  am  "all  right,"  as  you've 
learned  to  say.  Only  I Oh,  I  wish  I  had  died  last  night.' 

She  fled  from  the  room. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  75 

'Prince  Anton  is  downstairs.'  Lady  Peterborough  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  girl's  bed  the  next  morning  at  eleven  o'clock. 

'I  am  not  able  to  see  Prince  Anton.' 

'To-night,  perhaps?' 

'No.' 

'  To-morrow  ? ' 

'Never  again.' 

The  old  woman  leaning  on  the  footboard  half  smiled.  'I 
suppose  you  know  that  Lady  Hermione  Vinton  has  found  nothing 
to  complain  of  in  her  position?  And  everybody  receives  and 
respects  the  morganatic  wife  of  the  Russian  Grand  Duke ' 

'Please  let  Prince  Anton  be  told  I  cannot  see  him  again.' 

'Oh,  very  well.'  But  she  lingered.  'It  would  be  a  much 
more  interesting  life  than  being  married  to  the  average  English- 
man. .  .  .  For  a  little  cosmopolitan  like  you '  She  was 

nearly  at  the  door.  'It  would  have  suited  me  much  better,  I 
know.'  At  the  mere  prospect  she  turned  with  renewed  animation. 
'  If  you  played  your  cards  reasonably  well,  who  knows — the  world 
is  changing.  What  is  wildly  impossible  to-day,  is  a  matter  of 
course  in  a  few  years'  time.' 

'Just  tell  me  one  thing;'  the  girl  half  sat  up,  her  hair,  that  he 
had  said  was  as  fair  as  moonlight,  falling  all  about  her.  'What 
did  he  mean  when  he  spoke  of  "difficulties,"  "great  difficulties," 
that  had  been  got  over?' 

'Why,  that  he  was  ready  to  offer  you  a  private  marriage.  It 
means  a  great  deal  to  a  man  like  Anton.  He  is  still  as  free  as 
air.  Life  is  very  pleasant  for  such  a  person.  He  offers  to  lay 
many  of  its  attractions  aside.  You  would  have  a  legal  and 
understood  claim.  The  tie  would  be  fully  recognised.  The 
children ' 

'Don't!'    She  covered  her  face  with  her  hair. 

' they  would  be  received  and  provided  for.  You  too. 

You  know  you  haven't  a  great  deal  of  your  own.  I've  told  him 
your  god-father  would  insist  on  a  settlement ' 

'He  wouldn't  agree!'  she  said  through  the  shining  tangle. 

'He  hasn't  been  asked  yet.' 

'Thank  heaven  for  that!' 

'But  he  has  been  busying  himself.  Whatever  happens,  he  will 
have  to  be  told.  You  had  better  get  up  and  talk  it  over  with ' 


76  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'No!    I  will  never  speak  of  it  again.' 

'  Oh,  indeed.  Very  well.  What  message  shall  I  give  Walden- 
stein  ? ' 

'Please  give  him  my  "good-bye."' 

Prince  Anton  and  Lord  Falconbridge  were  giving  a  dinner- 
party at  the  Amphitryon  that  night.  Lord  Peterborough  was 
not  expected  to  lend  countenance  to  these  occasions.  'I  will 
do  many  things  for  peace,'  he  had  once  said,  'but  I  will  not 
eat  my  food  in  a  restaurant  while  I  have  a  dining-room  of  my 
own.' 

So  he  would  be  alone  to-night — unless  Kitty She  dragged 

herself   up   and   dressed.     When   the   gong   sounded   she   went 
downstairs. 

'Good  little  girl!'  was  the  greeting,  and  they  talked  as  though 
Kitty  were  in  the  habit  of  lying  in  bed  a  whole  day,  and  it  was 
a  special  grace  in  her  to  come  down  to  dinner. 

'Going  to  sing  a  little  by-and-by?'  he  asked  when  they  went 
into  the  drawing-room. 

'No — not — not  to-night,'  and  she  turned  away  her  head  quickly 
that  he  might  not  see  the  sudden  tears.  It  was  better  to  leave 
her  to  herself,  he  decided.  For  his  own  part,  he  sat  huddled 
over  some  reports  of  the  Historical  Society,  withdrawing  more 
and  more  from  an  unsatisfactory  world  into  the  depths  of  his 
great  arm-chair.  As  though  even  there,  feeling  himself  not  safe, 
he  seemed,  in  that  way  of  his  that  Katharine  knew  so  well,  to  be 
retiring  inch  by  inch  into  his  own  linen.  Only  the  ends  of  his 
fingers  came  out  of  his  wide  white  cuffs.  His  neck  and  spine 
seemed  to  have  drawn  together  like  a  closed  accordion.  Half-past 
nine.  Kitty  turned  the  pages  of  a  very  original  novel — for  they 
were  all  blank,  those  pages,  save  for  a  single  name  written  across 
each  one.  'Anton.'  'Anton.'  Half -past  nine.  And  here  was 
the  last  post.  Lord  Peterborough  had  to  come  out  of  his  retreat. 
One  of  his  letters  was  hard  to  read,  it  seemed.  He  thrust  out  his 
neck,  drew  out  his  accordion  spine,  and  you  could  see  now  how 
tall  he  would  be  standing.  His  letter  must  be  very  badly  written. 
He  turned  his  head  sideways,  with  eye-glass  eye  directed  full  at 
the  page,  and  looking  rather  like  a  suspicious  cock  interrogating 
a  grain  of  maize.  Muttering  discontentedly,  and  holding  the 


A  DARK  LANTERN  77 

paper  now  closer,  now  farther  off,  to  get  the  proper  focus,  he  went 
on  tromboning  with  his  letter. 

Kitty  laughed,  leaned  her  head  on  her  arm  and  burst  into  tears. 

'Bless  my  soul,  child!  Don't  do  that!'  He  uncoiled  himself 
and  got  up  shakily.  'Tell  me  about  it,  little  girl.  I  am  your 
guardian,  you  know.'  He  dwelt  significantly  on  the  beautiful 
word.  '  Don't  think  I  look  upon  the  office  altogether  lightly,  nor 
from  a  point  of  view  purely  legal.'  He  waited  a  moment,  standing 
before  the  crouched  figure  with  the  hidden  face.  He  seemed  to 
feel  he  must  talk  on  to  give  her  time  for  recovery.  'In  a  matter 
of  greater  moment  than  income  and  "settlements"  I  would 
"guard"  you,  little  girl.' 

He  waited.  She  put  out  one  hand  from  under  the  hidden 
face,  took  his,  pressed  it,  and  let  it  fall;  her  own  as  well,  hanging 
limp  at  her  side. 

He  drew  up  a  little  chair  beside  her  and  sat  there  waiting. 
'Perhaps  you  think  you  can't  talk  freely  to  a  dry  old  man.' 

'Dear,  if  to  anyone — to  you,'  the  muffled  voice  said  upon  a  sob. 

'I  know  more  about  what  you're  going  through  than  you  think.' 
The  only  answer,  the  low  sound  of  weeping.  'Yes,  it  is  very 
bitter — but  it  would  be  less  so  if  you  realized  the  bitterness  was 
certain  to  go.  Go  utterly.  I  know  something  about  it.' 

She  lifted  her  tear-stained  face.     'Did  you  ever ' 

'Yes — yes.'    He  was  looking  past  her  at  the  light. 

'  You — cared  ? ' 

He  nodded  slowly. 

'Hugely?  Horribly  much?'  The  prettiness  of  the  face  was 
suddenly  distorted  again  and  the  tears  streamed  down. 

But  the  old  face  smiled — tenderly,  pitifully.  'We  said  that  no 
man  and  woman  had  ever  cared  before — not  as  we  did.' 

She  bowed  her  head  and  still  wept  on. 

Presently  she  raised  her  face  and  dried  it.  Crushing  hei 
pocket-handkerchief  into  a  moist  little  ball,  she  said  in  that  cloudy 
voice  that  long  weeping  brings,  'You  were  young  too?' 

'About  as  young  as — about  twenty-eight.' 

Anton  was  twenty-eight.     'But  you  were  married  then.' 

'Yes,  I  was  not  free.' 

'Oh-h.' 

'It  came  too  late;  you  see.' 


78  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Too  late.' 

They  sat  and  looked  before  them. 

When  he  saw  the  ball  of  handkerchief  pressed  again  on  her  eyes, 
he  went  on  with  his  task. 

'You  don't  realize  it,  but  it's  worse  if  it  comes  when  you  are — 
when  you're  older.  For  then  you  have  been  saying  to  yourself  that 
you  have  missed  it — and  suddenly  at  the  eleventh  hour  here  it  is! 
Your  gladness  is  chequered  with  a  horror  at  remembering  how 
near  you  had  come  to  never  finding  it.  You  would  think  it  was 
your  last  chance.  We  said  all  these  things.  Had  our  hours  of 
mad  revolt — of  agonized  acceptance.' 

'And  then?' 

'Then ?  Oh,  then  we — we  turned  away  from  love  to  loneliness. 
Said,  for  honour's  sake  (decency's  sake  we'd  call  it  to-day — but 
this  was  long  ago,  and  we  used  noble  words  still,  unabashed  by  the 
majesty  of  them) — yes,  for  honour's  sake  we  would  make  the 
sacrifice,  lay  our  heads  upon  the  block  and  die  the  death.' 

Kitty  leaned  nearer  and  took  his  hand. 

'You  suffered  together,'  she  said.  He  assented.  'And  you 
have  that  to  remember.' 

He  seemed  to  agree.  'The  one  thing  that  comforted  us  was 
that  nothing  could  take  memory  away.  Had  we  been  destined  to 
be  happy,  so  our  sorry  comfort  ran,  we  might  (who  could  say?), 
in  falling  on  the  thorns  of  life — we  might  have  cried  out  against 
each  other,  forgotten  our  love  or  done  it  some  indignity.  Now  it 
was  safe,  because  it  lay  wrapped  in  cerements.  Not  all  the  angels 
in  heaven,  we  said,  not  God  Himself,  could  take  away  what  had 
been.' 

A  little  pause. 

He  cleared  his  throat  and  in  a  different  voice:  'I  haven't  thought 
of  Honora  for  fifteen  years.' 

'Oh!' 

'I  call  up  her  ghost  to-night  to  point  a  moral  anaesthetic. 
And  so  pale  are  memory  and  ghost,  I  may  have  summoned  them 
in  vain.  Let  them  go  back  to  sleep  again,  among  the  shades.' 
His  frail  hands  in  the  air  dismissed  them.  'Your  dream,  little 
girl,  will  go  to  join  my  dream,  and  Dante's  and  Abelard's  and  a 
million  more.  And  you  will  sit  one  day,  as  I  do,  trying  to  recover 
a  twinge  of  the  old  anguish — and  like  me  fail.' 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  following  summer,  a  marriage  was  announced  between 
Prince  Anton  Friederich  of  Breitenlohe-Waldenstein,  and  the 
Duchess  Margaretha,  of  Hildesheim,  member  of  a  petty  royal 
house,  and  the  Prince's  second  cousin. 

In  the  next  few  years  Katharine  had  more  than  one  escape 
from  an  encounter  with  the  Prince.  At  last  in  Paris,  at  the 
house  of  a  common  acquaintance,  they  found  themselves  face  to 
face. 

He  carried  it  off  with  his  old  light-hearted  grace.  It  was  the 
most  enchanting  thing  in  the  world,  this  meeting.  Lady  Peter- 
borough entirely  agreed  with  him.  Even  the  Marquis  de  Cour- 
celles  made  him  welcome  at  Auteuil,  when  Katharine,  for  once 
flying  Paris,  took  refuge  in  the  home  of  her  schooldays.  Anton's 
appearance  there,  his  instant  alliance  with  the  Marquise,  gave 
Katharine,  a  sense  of  seeing  circumstances  close  round  her  again. 

Not  without  admitting  to  others  things  that  she  shrank  from 
formulating  to  herself,  could  she  prevent  Prince  Anton's  frequent- 
ing the  house.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  no  share  in  Katharine's 
shrinking.  All  hers  the  pain  of  renewed  contact. 

That  was  the  tragedy  of  it — that  she  cared  still. 

Rumour  had  of  late  linked  the  name  of  Breitenlohe-Waldenstein 
with  that  of  a  great  singer.  To  Katharine's  amazement,  he  spoke 
of  Madame  Baria.  Then  came  the  day  when  he  told  her  that  he 
had  just  had  a  serious  disagreement  with  his  wife  about  the 
singer,  and  the  Princess  had  gone  off  in  a  frantic  rage  to  her 
brother  in  Pomerania. 

'And  she  has  taken  the  child,'  he  added. 

< Whose  child?' 

'Hers.' 

70 


8o  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'The  Princess's?' 

'And  mine,  of  course.  It's  all  right.'  He  brought  out  the  old 
phrase  with  a  new  inflection,  and  he  stroked  his  moustache,  as 
one  who  reflects  upon  good-fortune.  But  when  he  lifted  his  eyes, 
Katharine's  face  arrested  him.  He  tried  to  take  her  hand — took 
instead  her  recoil,  without  offence.  'You  perhaps  don't  realize,' 
he  said  significantly,  '  the  advent  of  that  small  person  alters  many 
things.' 

'Of  course.     A  child  is  a  great  tie.' 

'On  the  contrary,'  he  returned  with  equal  gravity.  'My  boy 
brought  me  my  edict  of  emancipation.  From  the  day  of  his  birth 
he  carries  my  burden.  I  am  now,  what  I  have  never  in  my  life 
been  before:  a  free  man.7  He  spoke  with  the  air  of  the  success- 
ful strategist.  It  was  as  if  he  would  have  her  believe  the  child's 
existence  was  proof  of  nothing  so  much  as  his  devotion  to  the 
woman  he  had  not  married. 

Upon  the  first  opportunity  he  returned  to  the  subject  of 
Madame  Baria.  How  dared  he  be  so  unblushing  about  the 
matter! 

'My  sympathies  are  all  with  the  Princess,'  Katharine  said 
coldly.  His  answer  was  to  turn  up  his  corn-coloured  moustache 
sharply  on  either  side,  with  a  slow  twist  of  thumb  and  forefinger, 
as  if  it  were  so  that  he  not  merely  manipulated  the  military 
moustachio,  but  set  the  full  lips  smiling  at  their  highest  signifi- 
cance. He  stood  looking  at  Katharine  over  his  two  hands, 
arrested  in  the  act. 

'What  a  pity,'  she  thought,  steeling  herself  against  the  remem- 
bered trick  of  manner,  'what  a  pity  he  knows  how  well  he  looks 
like  that!  I  am  sure  he  has  been  told  that  is  his  "conquering 
smile.'" 

'It  is  horrible,'  she  said,  turning  from  him,  'horrible  that  you 
should  be  so ' 

'So?' 

' so  false.'    She  sat  down  with  averted  face. 

'If  I  deserved  that  epithet  it  was  before  I  ever  saw  the  Baria. 
But  it  is  a  little  curious  to  be  reproached  by  you.' 

'I  admit,'  she  spoke  quietly  again,  and  with  a  distinct  effect  of 
establishing  distance — 'I  admit  that  I  have  not  the  shadow  of  a 
right  to  call  you  to  account.  It  would  be  grotesque  of  me ' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  81 

'It  would  be,'  he  said  with  sudden  passion,  'if  the  one  who  is 
responsible  for  the  affair  were  the  one  to  condemn  it.' 

Her  indignant  refusal  to  admit  the  smallest  responsibility  in  an 
odious  breach  of  faith,  he  turned  into  his  opportunity  to  tell  her, 
with  all  the  bitterness  of  the  impassioned  egoist,  how  he  rued  and 
deplored  the  wretched  marriage  Katharine's  behaviour  had  paved 
the  way  for. 

'  Every  hour  since  my  wedding-day  I  have  realized  more  poign- 
antly that  there  is  for  me  just  one  woman  in  the  world.' 

'  Mme.  Baria  ? '  inquired  Katharine,  hating  herself  for  the  poor 
jibe,  saying  it  to  keep  herself  from  tears. 

' Baria !'  he  burst  out,  'Baria  will  serve  an  end.'  Luckily, 
Margaretha  had  definitely  left  him.  It  was  to  tell  Katharine  that, 
that  he  had  come  to  Auteuil  to-day.  His  wife  would  beyond  a 
doubt  get  a  divorce.  No,  Katharine  need  not  start  up  with  scared 
looks.  Her  fair  fame  was  as  dear  to  him  as  her  love  would  be. 
Let  her  judge  from  that!  No.  The  pretext  would  be  Baria. 
Now,  did  Katharine  understand! 

The  next  day,  taking  Natalie,  and  leaving  her  god-mother 
behind,  she  joined  Lord  Peterborough  in  Devonshire. 

Anton,  not  daring  to  follow  her  there,  rained  upon  her  such 
Liebesbriefe  as  only  a  German  can  write.  Not  merely  mixing 
reverence  with  passion,  others  have  mastery  of  that  craft,  but  con- 
veying what  he  would  with  a  nai've  simplicity,  a  naked  directness 
as  electric  as  disarming.  An  effect,  this,  due  chiefly  to  the  lan- 
guage in  which  he  wrote,  lending  itself  to  that  combination  of 
the  raw  truth  that  goes  home,  and  the  sentimental  that  sounds  so 
much  more  possible  in  German  than  in  English — poetizing, 
philosophizing,  appealing  with  every  practised  phrase  of  the  man 
who  has  made  this  theme  his  study  as  well  as  his  pastime.  The 
same  letters  in  English  would  have  missed  their  mark;  spoiled  by 
that  shrinking  of  the  heart  from  the  phrase  worn  commonplace, 
its  significance  chiefly  ironic,  reminiscent  of  long  abuse.  The  old 
things  said  in  another  tongue  came  charged  with  the  excitement 
of  discovery,  wearing  a  freshness  as  of  Eden. 

And  he  made  good  his  claim  to  being  more  than  soldier.  Not 
only  sent  her  books  as  time  went  on,  wrote  about  them  pertinently. 
In  his  more  impassioned  moods,  made  and  sent  dedicated  to 

6 


82  A  DARK  LANTERN 

her  little  Gedichte,  that  because  they  were  not  notably  bad  seemed 
brilliant. 

But  for  all  their  hitting  the  mark,  Liebesbriefe  and  Gedichte 
got  for  their  return: 

'//  is  no  use.  I  wonder  at  your  lack  of  knowledge  of  woman- 
kind. This  "kind"  of  woman,  you  should  know,  I  am  not.' 

And  again: 

'  Your  Highness  is  very  daring.  You  will  even  be  writing  to  me 
of  Tugend  as  well  as  of  Liebe.  I  do  not  know  if  "Virtue"  is  as 
strong  in  me  as  Pride.  I  only  know,  that  although  my  feeling  about 
you  keeps  me  from  anyone  else,  it  will  equally  keep  me  from  you.' 

'Until  the  divorce!'  he  interpreted  by  return,  with  the  com- 
ment: 'Strange  what  cruelty  so  gentle  a  being  can  wilfully  inflict.' 
In  each  after  letter,  confident  reference  to  the  divorce.  Then 
proceedings  were  already  instituted! 

The  weeks  went  on  bringing  the  letters,  the  books,  the  little 
mementoes.  He  was  fertile  in  finding  excuse  for  making  her 
think  of  him.  He  understood,  as  nobler  men  have  failed  to  do, 
what  significance  these  material  things  may  carry;  more  eloquent 
sometimes,  in  their  guise  of  beautiful  symbols,  than  copies  of 
poetry  or  pages  of  protestation. 

Since  Katharine's  return  this  time  to  England,  whether  she 
were  in  London  or  the  country,  Waldenstein's  standing  order  at 
Gerard's,  in  Regent  Street,  brought  her  every  Thursday  a  basket 
of  La  France  roses — the  flowers  she  had  carried  at  the  Dra wing- 
Room  that  day  they  had  first  seen  each  other.  Never  the  heavy 
pink  buds  were  brought  into  the  room,  without  bringing  the 
sound  of  Prince  Anton's  voice,  the  look  in  his  face. 

With  the  prospect  of  the  divorce  held  so  steadily  in  view,  it 
seemed  less  flagrantly  unfit  that  he  should  address  her  in  the 
terms  he  used;  but  'es  ist  mir  zuwider,'  she  wrote  him  again  and 
again.  '  Wait  till  we  have  the  right  to  these  dear  words.  To  use 
them  now  is  like  asking  me  to  wear  Breitenlohe  family  jewels. 
They  still  belong  to  someone  else.' 

By  dint  of  simply  not  noticing  these  portions  of  her  letters,  he 
bore  down  her  objection  to  the  manner,  as  well  as  the  matter,  of 
his  address.  He  wrote  now  of  their  future  together  as  one  in  the 
act  of  making  practical  arrangements. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  83 

Lady  Peterborough's  letters  were  of  the  same  tenor.  She 
suggested  several  times  that  Katharine  should  return  to  Paris, 
but  the  girl  remained  in  Devon.  Even  Lord  Peterborough  was 
written  to  on  the  subject. 

'Why  don't  you  go?'  he  said,  not  dreaming  the  Prince  was 
there.  'I  don't  want  to  leave  you  so  soon  again,'  Katharine  had 
equivocated. 

'Oh,  as  to  leaving  me,  I  am  going  to  Holland,  as  soon  as  I  can 
get  away,'  and  he  expounded  a  holy  mission  to  prevent  an  in- 
valuable MS.  from  crossing  to  America.  Still  Katharine  did 
not  give  him  his  discharge.  The  old  man  wondered. 

Not  till  the  Prince  left  France  (all  his  movements  were  inter- 
preted as  hinging  upon  arrangements  for  the  divorce) — not  till 
then  did  Lady  Peterborough  return  to  London,  summoning  her 
family  to  meet  her. 

Katharine  was  nothing  loth.  German  letters  were  many  hours 
nearer  in  London  than  in  Devon.  Waldenstein  himself  was 
nearer,  though  she  had  expressly  forbidden  him  to  set  foot  on 
English  soil  'until  after.' 

Lord  Peterborough  deposited  Kitty  in  London,  and  hurried  on 
to  the  Hague.  He  was  hardly  across  the  Channel  before  his  wife 
began  to  complain  as  loudly  of  the  desolate  state  of  London  dur- 
ing the  Easter  holidays,  as  though  it  were  something  never 
remarked  before.  The  very  idea  of  Devon  this  rainy  weather 
made  her  ill.  She  developed  a  well-known  but,  to  her  entourage, 
very  alarming  symptom  described  by  herself  as  'creaking  with 
boredom.' 

On  the  following  day  she  was  considering  a  plan  for  taking 
Katharine  and  going  to  Berlin.  Why  not  ?  The  Carrs  were  to  be 
there  on  their  way  from  Egypt  to  St.  Petersburg.  Katharine  was 
obliged  to  acknowledge  to  herself,  that  this  was  just  the  kind 
of  sudden  scheme  for  movement  and  diversion,  that  Lady  Peter- 
borough was  capable  of  evolving  at  any  moment,  and  yet 

If  Anton  were  not  in  Berlin,  he  was  only  a  couple  of  hours  away 
at  his  cousin's,  Graf  Wilhelm's. 

'I  don't  feel  like  going  abroad  so  soon  again,'  Katharine  had 
said. 

'Oh,  you'd  better,'  returned  her  ladyship  off-hand.  'You 
can't  stay  here  alone.' 


84  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'I'll  go  to  my  father  for  a  little.  He  has  not  been  able  to  get 
away  this  Easter.' 

Lady  Peterborough  produced  her  familiar  snort,  but  said 
nothing. 

It  did  not  necessarily  argue  great  affection  for  her  god-daughter, 
that  she  should  feel  Katharine  to  be  an  essential  part  of  the  suc- 
cess of  the  German  programme.  She  continued  to  say  nothing 
further  on  the  subject,  but  she  postponed  her  plans  for  a  day  or 
two.  Katharine,  grown  more  analytic,  fully  expected  that  Lady 
Peterborough  was  waiting  for  the  purpose  of  communicating  the 
state  of  affairs  to  her  ally.  There  would  surely  be  imploring  tele- 
grams. But  nothing.  Not  even  the  now  usual  daily  letter. 
What  had  happened?  Was  Anton  ill?  Or  angry  at  something 
Katharine  had  said  in  her  last  letter.  She  tried  to  recall  precisely 
what  she  had  written  and  waited  anxiously;  tried  to  quiet  her 
nerves  by  setting  aside  her  own  preoccupations  and  devoting  her- 
self  to  her  father. 

Mention  has  been  made  of  things  that  early  disconcerted 
Katharine's  loving  admiration  of  him.  These  things,  of  one 
kind  and  another,  seemed  to  have  their  origin  in  the  fact  that 
Colonel  Dereham  did  not  always  speak  by  the  card,  nor  even 
think  with  accuracy,  as  Katharine  explained  to  herself;  not  yet 
knowing  how  the  one  vice  inevitably  breeds  the  other;  so  eager 
to  find  excuse  for  him  that  she  got  a  kind  of  pitying  comfort  out 
of  setting  the  effect  before  the  cause. 

When  she  at  first,  in  all  good  faith,  had  prompted  his  memory 
or  mended  his  misapprehension,  he  would  look  at  her  with  an  odd 
expression  in  his  fine  eyes,  and  say: 

'You  are  very  like  your  mother.' 

'It's  the  only  unkind  thing  he  ever  says  of  her,'  the  girl  had 
thought  with  tender  mystification. 

Certainly  Katharine,  in  spite  of  her  somewhat  lax  training,  and 
in  spite,  as  the  superficial  might  say,  of  her  poetic  leanings,  felt 
for  la  ve*rite  vraie  that  passion  of  the  soul  that  realizes  the  largest 
optimism  by  refusing  to  believe  that  men  can  improve  upon  truth; 
with  early  glimpses  of  a  further  faith,  that,  should  the  first  obvious 
Good — that  all  men  yearn  for —  should  that  fail,  the  second  will 
be  there,  the  greater  Good  of  bearing  well  the  absence  of  the 
good  we  sought.  If  Colonel  Dereham  long  ago,  when  he  and  his 


A  DARK  LANTERN  85 

world  were  young,  had  ever  had  glimpses  of  this  source  of  high 
content,  they  were  dimmed  and  lost  in  the  light  of  these  common 
days. 

On  going  to  Hill  Street  after  her  heroic  decision  not  to  accom- 
pany Lady  Peterborough  to  Berlin,  Katharine  found  her  father  in 
one  of  his  strange,  dulled,  unsociable  moods.  His  daughter's 
proposal  to  come,  after  Lady  Peterborough's  departure,  to  spend 
a  fortnight  with  him,  he  received  with  some  surface  grace.  And 
the  next  morning  telegraphed  her  from  Boulogne  that  he  had  felt 
so  ill,  he  was  seeking  change!  No  address. 

'I'll  go  with  you  after  all  if  you'll  have  me,'  Katharine  said  to 
Lady  Peterborough.  It  seemed  to  be  Fate. 

The  night  they  crossed  the  Channel,  while  Natalie  in  her  mis- 
tress's state-room  was  hastily  putting  out  the  toilet  things,  in 
lugubrious  anticipation  of  being  speedily  incapacitated  for  fur- 
ther service,  her  disgust  at  the  unexpected  journey  found  vent 
in  guarded  muttering  against  Lady  Peterborough.  Katharine 
laughed. 

'It's  not  Lady  Peterborough  who  makes  you  put  to  sea,  my 
poor  Natalie.  It's  I.'  Oh  no,  it  was  her  Ladyship.  She  had 
made  up  her  mind  Mademoiselle  Katharine  should  go.  'Not  a 
bit  of  it.  She  accepted  my  refusal  without  a  murmur.'  Without 
a  murmur?  Very  like!  Her  ladyship  did  things  more  effectual 
than  murmur.  What '  nonsense '  was  she  talking  ?  Kind  heaven ! 
but  nonsense  was  not  in  her  line.  'Me?  I  use  my  eyes  and 
ears,'  said  the  Frenchwoman  with  severity. 

'And  then?' 

'Then?  I  find  that  her  ladyship  does  not  accept  it  that  Mad- 
emoiselle Katharine  should  decline  to  go  abroad;  should  visit  her 
father.  She  goes  herself  to  Hill  Street — Lady  Peterborough 
does — to  arrange  that.' 

'Ridiculous!    Lady  Peterborough  never  goes  to  Hill  Street.' 

'An  exception,  last  Wednesday.  She  went  to  call  on  Colonel 
Dereham.  He  was  not  at  home,  hein?  Much  good  that.  She 
goes  up  to  his  bedroom,  and  talks  to  him  for  one  ha  If -hour.' 

'How  do  you  know?' 

'Gibbs,  he  tell  me.  Therefore  are  we  not  in  Hill  Street,  but 
God  have  mercy  on  us,  here!  Presently,  no  doubt,  at  the  bottom.' 

Katharine  left  the  woman  grumbling  over  her  work,  and  went 


86  A  DARK  LANTERN 

above.  A  night  of  fitful  moonlight  and  wind-driven  clouds 
Already  they  were  off.  No  sleep  for  Katharine  Dereham  unless 
walking  the  deck  awhile,  with  this  salt  breeze  in  her  face,  should 
quiet  her  nerves.  If  what  Natalie  reported  was  a  fact,  then  the 
day  after  Katharine  had  said  'I'll  go  and  stay  in  Hill  Street,'  the 
very  next  morning  after  she  had  arranged  it  with  her  father,  Lady 
Peterborough  had  left  Katharine  in  Bond  Street,  trying  on  hats 
at  Angela's,  and  had  driven  straight  to  Colonel  Dereham's. 

Why  should  the  circumstance,  unusual,  unprecedented  as  it  was, 
disturb  Katharine  so  profoundly  ?  Even  if  the  surreptitious  visit 
had  really  taken  place,  was  it  anything  new  to  find  Lady  Peter- 
borough manoeuvring  to  compass  her  own  entertainment?  The 
question  was,  had  Anton  been  in  communication  with  her?  Or 
was  she  merely  flying  from  London,  on  her  own  initiative,  to 
avoid  a  time  when  her  particular  world  had  not  returned  from 
Easter  outings — ready  in  her  own  conscienceless  way  to  use  Kath- 
arine as  a  bridge  to  pleasure,  yet  innocent  of  actual  collusion. 
Oh,  the  fatigue,  the  ugliness  of  such  speculation! 

Her  father,  too.  How  strange  he  was  of  late!  Was  the  Heath- 
cote  woman  worrying  ? 

Oh,  to  clear  all  the  fog  and  doubt  and  double-dealing  away! 
To  speak  honestly  and  to  be  honestly  answered!  The  truth! 
The  truth!  There  were  times  when  that  seemed  to  be  all  she 
asked  of  life. 

More  and  more,  where  everything  seemed  shifting  and  uncer- 
tain, her  soul  thirsted  for  some  sound  assurance.  How  long 
would  she  be  forced  to  live  on  this  windy  diet  of  implication, 
hint,  insinuation,  and  such  meagre  sustenance  as  she  could  glean 
'between  the  lines.'  'I  am  not  meaning  you,  Anton,'  she  ex- 
claimed in  her  heart,  having  meant  most  of  all  him,  yet  pitiful  to 
the  hurt  such  thoughts  had  done  her  old  ideal  of  him.  Up  and 
down  in  the  windy  moonlight  she  walked  the  deck  to  tire  out  her 
fears,  up  and  down  with  the  scent  of  tar  and  salt  in  her  face,  in- 
sensibly soothed  in  her  helplessness  by  the  valiant  forging-onward 
motion  of  the  ship,  buoyed  up  by  the  secret  sense  of  superiority 
that  visits  the  woman  who  may  call  herself  'a  good  sailor.'  She 
loved  it  all — the  swish  of  the  spray,  even  the  swinging  and  waver- 
ing of  the  deck,  yes,  the  putting  down  the  foot  and  finding  the 
floor  sunk  half  a  yard,  or  risen  till  one  strings  the  sinews  for  a 


A  DARK  LANTERN  87 

hill-climb — or  as  if  one  walked  the  waves  themselves,  or  on  the 
rolling  clouds. 

The  morning  found  her  in  better  heart.  She  helped  the  dis- 
organized maids  to  get  the  luggage  through  the  customs,  and 
after  the  reviving  cup  of  coffee  and  the  brioche  that  tastes  so 
wonderfully  good  the  first  day  of  one's  return  to  it— she  had 
shaken  herself  free  of  the  shadows  of  the  previous  night,  and 
yielded  herself  up  to  the  thought  that  nearer,  nearer,  every  minute 
of  that  day  would  see  her  to  her  goal!  She  stood  in  the  corridor 
of  the  Berlin  express,  looking  out  at  the  flat,  water-laned  country, 
the  familiar  windmills,  the  women  in  sabots,  wearing  white  poke 
bonnets  over  close-fitting  hoods,  basket  on  arm,  hurrying  briskly 
along  the  level  roads  in  the  pink  and  pearl-gray  light  of  the  early 
hour.  Saw  the  marshes  and  canals  drop  their  smoke  and  silver 
hues,  and  take  on  the  gold  of  the  advancing  morning — tasted 
that  intoxicating  cup,  the  beauty  of  the  world,  which  goes  to  the 
head  like  wine,  and  like  wine  wins  us  to  think  better  of  ourselves, 
our  fellows,  and  our  common  fate,  since  here  we  are  environed 
all  about  by  glories  such  as  these. 

All  through  the  day,  each  time  the  train,  stopped,  Katharine 
sent  out  to  buy  papers.  Searched  them  through  for  Court  gossip, 
and  for  gossip  of  the  courts. 

But,  after  all,  legal  proceedings  against  a  Waldenstein  were  not 
conducted  as  they  were  amongst  the  rank  and  file.  Prince  Hein- 
rich,  the  head  of  the  house,  had  power  to  dissolve  the  marriage, 
but  naturally  little  willingness.  He  would  no  doubt  try  recon- 
ciliation first.  In  any  case  the  hearing  would  never  reach  be- 
yond the  Castle  walls.  The  reason  that  she  had  no  letters,  might 
be,  that  at  that  very  instant  the  trial  was  going  on,  and  Anton, 
no  longer  with  his  cousin  in  the  Elbethal,  was  absorbed  body 
and  soul  in  fighting  for  liberty  and  her  in  the  family  council  sum- 
moned to  the  Riesengebirge.  Or  was  he  in  Berlin  ?  Her  guesses 
kept  her  on  the  rack. 

Two  days  in  the  German  capital  without  sign  or  hint  of  him. 
Then  beyond  any  shadow  of  doubt  he  was  gone  to  Waldenstein ! 

On  the  third  morning  a  brief  note  bearing  the  same  Wilhelms- 
ruhe  postmark,  yet  saying  he  had  been  away  and  that  his  letters 
had  only  just  come  into  his  hand;  adding  that  he  was  proposing 
by  the  same  post  his  plans  for  meeting. 


88  A  DARK  LANTERN 

To  be  so  certain  that  she  would  fall  in  with  it — that  could 
mean  only  that  he  would  be  bringing  her  great  and  happy  news. 
A  moment's  bitterness  at  the  thought  that  she  should  have  so 
descended  from  the  crystalline  heights  of  the  old  shining  dreams, 
as  to  call  'great  and  happy,'  the  news  of  a  man's  divorce  from  an 
innocent  woman,  his  freedom  to  offer  the  lees  of  his  life  to  her, 
to  Katharine  Dereham! 

His  letter  to  Lady  Peterborough  made  no  mention  of  any 
earlier  communication  from  her.  Merely  regretted  not  having 
been  in  Berlin  to  receive  her,  and  suggested  that  for  fear  the  fine 
weather  might  not  last,  she  and  Miss  Dereham  should  come 
two-thirds  of  the  way  the  following  day  by  train,  to  meet  him 
and  his  cousin  for  half  a  day's  coaching  in  the  Sachsische  Schweiz. 

These  were  so  far  from  being  the  conditions  Katharine  would 
have  chosen  for  their  meeting,  that  she  had  a  moment  of  think- 
ing she  would  not  fall  in  with  the  arrangement.  But  the  need 
to  see  him  now,  without  delay,  was  grown  too  great  for  her  to 
cavil  at  the  where  and  how.  To-morrow,  then. 


CHAPTER  Vin 

LADY  PETERBOROUGH  dropped  her  Carrs  without  a  pang. 
The  morning  that  she  and  Katharine  took  the  train  agreed  upon, 
brought  the  same  weather  that  had  thus  far  smiled  upon  them, 
mild  and  bright. 

'I  made  an  excursion  very  like  this  when  I  was  a  girl,'  the  old 
woman  had  said  in  high  good  humour.  Before  the  train  stopped 
at  their  destination  she  dropped  the  Tageblatt,  and  put  her  head 
out  of  the  window,  instantly  ejaculating,  'I  see  him!' 

'Graf  Wilhelm  too?'  inquired  her  companion  for  the  sake  of 
saying  something. 

Katharine's  outward  stillness  gave  no  hint  of  the  tumult  within. 
It  was  Lady  Peterborough  who  was  all  animation,  excitement, 
volubility.  Through  the  window  she  made  a  slight  motion  with 
a  stiff  rheumatic  hand  in  its  loose  white  glove.  'They  see!' 
She  smiled  with  unusual  urbanity.  'I  like  a  man  to  take  off  his 
hat  like  that,  and  to  stand  so,  bareheaded,  as  if  we  were  Kings 
and  Queens,  my  dear.  None  of  your  Englishman's  uneasy  haste 
to  get  his  headgear  out  of  his  hand!  Kind  Heaven,  what  have 
those  two  got  on!  Lincoln  green  with  scarlet  waistcoats.  Oh, 
these  dear  Germans!  How  it  carries  one  back!  And  their  buff 
leather '  The  slowing  train  stopped  with  a  bump  that  pre- 
cipitated Lady  Peterborough  into  her  seat  feeble  with  laughter. 
'And  you'll  find  they  think  their  clothes  are  English!'  she  gasped. 
'I've  seen  it  in  a  modified  form  before.  In  their  grim  deter- 
mination to  dress  pour  le  sport  a  1'Anglaise,  even  the  foreigner 
who  knows  England  at  first  hand,  will  put  on  things  that  no 

Briton  out  of  Bedlam '     She  thrust  her  black  wig  once  more 

out  of  the  window:  'Saints  in  Paradise!  what  is  it  they've  got  on 
their  heads?  Tyrolese  hats,  my  child,  with  feather  tufts  at  the 
back!  Oh,  these  dear  Germans!' 

89 


90  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Katharine  had  sat  quite  still,  and  let  Lady  Peterborough  do  all 
the  reconnoitring.  The  first  she  saw  of  Anton,  he  was  at  the 
window  thrusting  aside  a  Gepacktrager,  even  the  magnificent 
guard,  and  himself  throwing  open  the  door.  His  hand  crushed 
hers,  then  carried  it  to  his  lips.  His  eyes  could  not  have  smiled 
in  that  fashion  into  hers  if  all  were  less  than  well! 

Graf  Wilhelm  was  made  known:  a  man  of  fifty  odd,  with  a 
big  stomach  and  a  round  grey-whiskered  face.  Very  urbane  and 
inclined  to  laugh  noisily  on  small  provocation.  The  appearance 
of  the  two,  if  extremely  smart,  was  in  truth  somewhat  surprising. 
Apart  from  the  question  of  hats,  it  could  not  be  denied  that  few 
Englishmen  would  have  had  the  courage  to  confront  the  public 
so  attired;  but  the  effect  was  at  least  as  'sporting'  if  not  as  Eng- 
lish as  intended.  The  waistcoats  alone  were  enough  to  make 
the  most  spleenful  Briton  smile,  but  after  all  they  were  immensely 
becoming — at  least,  Waldenstein's  was. 

Katharine,  intent  on  considerations  more  important,  was  con- 
scious only  of  that  spice  of  foreignness,  that  gay  pictorial  quality, 
which  is  one  of  the  islander's  gains  in  going  abroad.  Not  a  case 
of  waistcoats  and  flamboyant  ties  alone — these  did  but  match 
the  more  picturesque  manners,  the  hand-kissing,  the  very  way 
they  had  doffed  again  the  absurd  green  hats.  All  very  well  for  an 
Englishman  to  scorn  such  doings.  He  has  no  skill  in  these  things. 

'What  a  day!'  Katharine,  conscious  of  the  tell-tale  radiance 
of  her  air,  turned  her  face  up  to  the  cloudless  sky  as  if  to  insist: 
'It  is  this  sweet  spring  sunshine  at  noontide  flood,  not  reassurance 
in  the  shining  looks  of  my  lover,  that  makes  my  world  and  me  so 
gay.'  Talk  and  laughter  between  Lady  Peterborough  and  the 
two  men  flowed  on,  as  they  walked  the  long  platform,  now  under 
its  high  glass  roof,  now  downstairs,  now  along  passages  of  vitri- 
fied brick,  up  again  and  out  at  the  main  entrance. 

'I  thought  you  said  a  drag!'  Lady  Peterborough  arraigned 
Prince  Anton  as  he  stopped  beside  a  carriage. 

'It  will  come  for  us  in  an  hour,'  answered  Graf  Wilhelm, 
stepping  forward  with  an  air,  and  handing  her  in — 'after  we  are 
fortified  with  a  little  ddjeuner.' 

As  Katharine  waited  to  follow  her  god-mother  into  the  landau, 
she  turned  quickly  and,  risking  remark,  said  to  Prince  Anton 
under  her  breath: 


A  DARK  LANTERN  91 

'Well?' 

'Welll' 

'Is  it  well?' 

'  Can  you  doubt  it  ? '  Of  course  not,  not  from  the  moment  she 
had  seen  his  face  at  the  carriage  window. 

'What  are  all  the  flags  and  decorations  for?'  demanded  Lady 
Peterborough  as  they  drove  off. 

'Even  the  old  town  is  glad  to-day,'  the  Prince  said  to  Katha- 
rine. They  exchanged  looks,  like  two  children  with  some  gay 
secret. 

Graf  Wilhelm,  more  explicit,  answered:  'The  birthday  of  our 
Saxon  King,  your  ladyship.' 

Through  the  crowded  streets  they  clattered  at  nearly  as  in- 
considerate a  pace  as  the  Droschkes,  whose  Klitscher  drove 
gaily  over  the  populace  by  virtue  of  being  Erste  Klasse.  Through 
the  Altmarkt,  past  the  Konigliche  palace  and  the  Hofkirche, 
that  Graf  Wilhelm  said  Frederick  the  Great  had  bombarded, 
and  where  at  that  moment  old  King  Albert  and  his  Court  were 
hearing  the  High  Mass  celebrated.  A  glimpse  of  royal  coaches, 
as  the  travellers  drove  by,  and  here  they  were  at  their  hotel. 

They  breakfasted  before  silver  epergnes  in  which  the  floral 
decorations  were  peonies  made  of  scarlet  feathers.  Again  Lady 
Peterborough  twisted  her  old  face  and  murmured:  'These  dear 
Germans!'  and  the  only  one  to  resent  either  look  or  words  was 
Katharine,  it  seemed. 

She  could  have  wished — grown  suddenly  sensitive  to  their  fair 
fame — that  Germans  of  Graf  Wilhelm's  generation  ate  more 
fastidiously — more  after  the  manner  of  Prince  Anton  and  'people 
generally.'  The  type  of  what  she  had  heard  with  disgust  called 
'the  heavy  feeder'  was  intensely  antipathetic,  and  she  kept  her 
eyes  turned  religiously  away  from  the  offender  as  much  as  was 
possible.  But  Graf  Wilhelm  was  far  from  unintelligent,  and 
as  great  a  talker  as  he  was  a  trencher-man. 

Anton  had  taken  out  of  the  back  of  the  carriage  a  parcel, 
which  he  produced  during  the  meal  and  proceeded  to  undo.  A 
very  beautiful  bit  of  old  porcelain,  the  figure  of  a  girl. 

'I  have  to  be  very  careful.  It  is  only  lent  to  me — out  of  the 
royal  collection.  But  you  see  who  it  is  like  ? '  he  asked  Katharine. 
'It  has  for  me  a  look  of  you.' 


92  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Graf  Wilhelm  thought  the  same.  Lady  Peterborough  couldn't 
see  it.  'But  it  is  quite  exquisite,'  she  agreed. 

'I  must  return  it  to-morrow,  but  I  want  to  get  the  people  at 
Meissen  to  copy  it.  One  for  you  and  one  for  me,'  Prince  Anton 
said  to  Katharine.  'We  can  go  anywhere  you  like  any  other 
day.  What  do  you  say?'  he  turned  to  Lady  Peterborough, 
'  what  do  you  say  to  driving  through  the  valley  of  the  Elbe  to  the 
Potteries  this  afternoon?' 

'Surely  everything  will  be  shut!' 

'No.  I've  wired.  I've  arranged  that  the  man  I  want  to  see 
shall  be  there.' 

'Ah!  You  have  arranged  that  you  will  have  your  own  way. 
Then  why  the  formality  of  asking  us?' 

In  the  good-humoured  sparring  between  the  two,  Katharine 
declined  to  bear  a  share.  'Just  as  Lady  Peterborough  thinks,' 
she  said,  not  indeed  greatly  caring,  since  she  and  Anton  were 
not  to  be  alone,  in  which  direction  or  upon  what  pretext  they  all 
went  driving  through  the  April  sunshine.  In  any  case  he  would 
surely  make  his  opportunity  to  tell  her  the  news  she  longed  so 
desperately  to  hear.  Or  rather  the  particulars.  For  now  she 
knew  his  news.  The  sound  of  a  horn  blown  loud. 

'The  King  going  by?' 

'I  rather  think  our  coach.'  They  found  it  at  the  door.  Graf 
Wilhelm  climbed  to  the  box  seat,  and  Anton  stood  below  hand- 
ing the  ladies  up. 

'You  goin'  to  drive?'  demanded  Lady  Peterborough,  watch- 
ing Graf  Wilhelm  with  suspicion. 

'I  am  to  have  that  pleasure.' 

'Well,  I  hope  it  will  be  a  pleasure  all  round,'  she  said  darkly, 
and  then,  with  heroic  aspect,  mounted.  'No,  Katharine  should 
sit  on  the  box,'  she  said,  her  ladyship's  plan  being  obviously  to 
appropriate  the  Prince.  Katharine  and  he  followed.  The 
grooms  sprang  into  their  places.  Graf  Wilhelm  gathered  up 
the  reins,  a  blast  on  the  shining  horn,  and  away  they  went  through 
streets,  gay  with  the  green  and  white  Saxon  banners,  and  the 
sunshine  and  the  holiday  crowd. 

Now  they  were  stopped  by  the  police,  and  made  to  wait  some 
moments  before  they  could  cross  the  street.  The  monarch  was 
on  his  way  to  the  Review.  Here  they  were,  the  kindly  old  King 


A  DARK  LANTERN  93 

with  ruddy  face  and  frosty  beard,  and  sitting  beside  him,  the 
Emperor  William,  come  to  do  him  honour,  dressed  in  white, 
with  white  cock's  feathers  blowing  over  a  shining  helmet. 

The  old  King,  bowing  right  and  left,  smiled  and  nodded  at 
Graf  Wilhelm.  The  Emperor  turned  his  head  slightly,  levelling 
a  sharp  look  at  the  party  on  the  coach,  with  hand  lifted  return- 
ing the  men's  salute.  A  little  pause,  and  a  second  carriage  with 
the  Queen  and  the  Princess  Mathilde;  a  third  and  fourth. 

Prince  Georg  had  made  sign  of  recognition  to  the  men  on  the 
coach.  Upon  Lady  Peterborough's  sharp  repetition,  'Who  is 
that  ? '  Graf  Wilhelm  told  off  the  lesser  royalties  as  the  carriages 
rolled  by.  When  the  last  was  gone,  the  populace  overflowed 
the  highway,  compelling  the  big  coach  to  move  slowly  for  the 
first  few  yards,  but  the  way  cleared  before  a  blast  from  the  horn, 
and  the  great  vehicle  went  clattering  over  the  cobbles  of  the  long 
Leipziger  Strasse,  till  it  left  the  town  behind.  Out  here  were 
smooth  and  pleasant  roads,  bordered  by  gardens,  or  by  sunny 
meadows  sloping  down  to  the  Elbe,  fringed  with  the  tender  greeen 
of  April  leafage.  And  now  they  were  in  Apple-blossom  Land; 
for  mile  after  mile  they  drove  between  orchards  in  full  blpom, 
upon  a  roadway  carpeted  with  fallen  flakes  of  pink  and  white. 

'In  a  minute,'  Graf  Wilhelm  said,  'we  shall  see,  on  that  hill 
over  there,  the  ruin  of  the  Schloss  that  is  the  twin  of  W'alden- 
stein.'  Noticing  Katharine  turn  with  kindling  looks,  Lady 
Peterborough  observed  with  decision,  '/  shall  save  myself  for 
the  Potteries.  Scaling  this  coach  will  be  climbing  enough  for 
one  day.' 

'There's  a  road  part  way  up,'  Graf  Wilhelm  consoled  his 
companion.  'We'll  go  as  far  as  the  Forst  Haus.  There  it  is.' 
High  above  the  new  building,  of  a  cringing  ugliness,  the  old 
castle  lorded  it  even  in  its  ruin. 

'That,'  Graf  Wilhelm  pointed  with  his  whip,  'that  was  the 
Wittwen  Haus  of  the  ancestors  of  the  present  King  on  his  mother's 
side.  The  Margrave  who  built  it  was  born  in  the  room  where 
my  cousin,  here,  first  saw  the  light.' 

'How  was  that?'  asked  Katharine.  'How  did  the  Walden- 
stein  come  here?' 

'He  was  a  younger  son  too,  and  having  married  a  South  Ger- 
man, he  searched  all  Saxony  for  a  site  like  Waldenstein.' 


94  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'If  he  thought  this  was  like  it  the  gentleman  was  blind,'  said 
Anton,  a  trifle  impatiently. 

'No  doubt  in  his  day,'  the  other  defended  the  Margrave,  'the 
woods  were  as  fine  about  here  as  yours  of  Waldenstein.  You 
can't  deny  he  found  a  hill  set  above  a  river,  just  where  three 
valleys  meet,  and  he  built  his  castle  in  every  respect  like  the  one 
he  had  been  born  in.' 

And  Waldenstein  is  older  still,  thought  Katharine,  looking  up 
at  the  ruin.  Was  the  day  not  far  when  from  windows  framed 
before  those  that  were  crumbling  on  the  cliff,  she  would  look  out 
upon  a  world  like  this,  only  wooded  where  this  was  bare,  like  this 
commanding  three  several  valleys,  like  this  divinely  smiled  upon 
by  curving  river,  and  rich  sunshine  and  apple-trees  in  bloom? 
'And  so  Waldenstein's  like  this!'  she  said  aloud. 

'Only  the  old  part.  Let  us  get  on,  shall  we?'  Prince  Anton 
suggested. 

'About  what  date  is  this?'  Lady  Peterborough  turned  to 
him,  the  only  one  of  the  party  who  had  seemed  to  take  no  sort  of 
interest  in  what  Graf  Wilhelm  had  been  saying. 


While  Prince  Anton  hesitated  Katharine  turned,  and  over  her 
shoulder  said,  'I  think  you  told  me  the  Waldenstein  date  was 
1  200  and  something.' 

'No,  no,'  cried  out  Graf  Wilhelm,  'two  hundred  years  earlier.' 

'Oh,  very  like,'  said  the  other. 

'What!'  Katharine  threw  over  her  shoulder,  'you  drop  two 
centuries  out  of  your  family  history  as  lightly  as  that!'  He 
seemed  not  to  hear. 

But  she  had  done  this  red-faced  Graf  Wilhelm  an  injustice. 
He  had  great  feeling  for  these  things  of  the  past,  that  so  fired 
Katharine's  imagination.  He  was  leaning  back  now  answering  a 
question  of  Lady  Peterborough's:  'Yes,  it  was  that  Margrave  of 
Waldenstein,  who  built  this  in  1062  —  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century  before  it  came  into  the  hands  of  the  present  reigning 
house,  by  marriage.' 

'The  present  reigning  house!'  echoed  Lady  Peterborough. 
'I  always  say  your  German  families  give  most  of  ours  a  very 
mushroom  air.' 

'Of  course,'  Graf  Wilhelm  admitted,  'ours  of  Saxony  is  the 


A  DARK  LANTERN  95 

oldest  reigning  house  in  Europe.     They've  sat  on  the  throne  for 
over  eight  hundred  years.' 

One  family  keeping  such  power  in  their  hands  all  that  time! 
through  the  most  eventful  800  years  the  world  had  known — 
keeping  it  to  this  hour!  The  old  man  they  had  just  seen  took 
on  for  Katharine  a  new  significance.  How  tenacious  were  these 
Teutons!  Not  in  mere  domination  so  much,  as  in  this  long  con- 
tinuance of  it,  lay  the  triumph  of  the  aristocratic  idea.  Other- 
where dynasties  rose  and  fell,  whole  nations  were  wiped  out,  and 
still  the  same  house  ruled  Saxony,  and  still  in  the  Pomeranian  forest 
Princes  of  Anton's  blood  sat  firm  on  the  Waldenstein  crag. 

And  she  was  to  have  her  share  in  this  long  story!  Nothing  that 
she  heard  or  saw  but  took  on  sharp  significance.  Nothing  so 
trivial  but  it  would  bear  upon  what  was  coming.  These  things 
were  to  be  the  background  of  her  new  life. 

Now  they  were  waking  echoes  in  the  Meissen  streets.  'That 
is  the  Dom,'  Graf  Wilhelm  pointed  with  his  whip.  'The  finest 
example  of  Gothic  in  Saxony.'  Prince  Anton's  animation  came 
back  only  when  they  approached  the  Potteries.  Everything  at  the 
great  factory  shut  and  silent.  But  no,  two  brisk  young  men,  and 
an  old  gentleman,  who  seemed  vastly  pleased  that  Prince  Anton 
should  have  come  personally  to  him  about  the  order.  He  ex- 
amined the  statuette  through  great  round  spectacles,  and  asked 
leave  to  keep  it  till  the  following  day. 

'Now  these  ladies  will  come  down  and  look  at  some  of  your 
fine  things!'  said  his  patron. 

'Unfortunately '    many    apologies;    everything    shut    and 

locked.     'Any  other  time ' 

'I  told  you  it  would  be  like  this!'  Lady  Peterborough  called 
down;  and  as  the  talk  below  went  forward,  Graf  Wilhelm  joining 
in,  she  gave  herself  the  satisfaction  of  whispering  in  Katharine's 
ear:  'Dreadfully  spoilt  these  little  royalties  1  They  think  no  rule 
holds  for  them.' 

'Oh,  well,'  said  Graf  Wilhelm.  'You  can  see  all  this  another 
day.  In  any  case  it  is  nearly  the  hour  when  all  English  ladies 
must  drink  tea.' 

'Not  in  Germany!'  said  Lady  Peterborough  with  telling 
emphasis. 

'But  mine  is  Russian  caravan  tea.     You  will  like  it,  I  am 


96  A  DARK  LANTERN 

bold  enough  to  believe.     I  told  them  to  be  ready  for  us  any  time 
after  four.' 

'Where?' 

'At  Wilhelmsruhe.' 

'Oh,  is  your  place  near?' 

'Not  half  an  hour's  drive,'  said  Anton. 

'You  seem  to  have  the  afternoon  very  carefully  mapped  out.' 

'Your  ladyship  mocks  me.  But  I  will  not  have  you  wholly 
disappointed.  It  is  a  very  good  exchange,  I  assure  you.  My 
cousin  has  things  infinitely  better  worth  seeing  than  any  they 
could  show  you  here.' 

It  was  not  yet  five  o'clock  when  the  coach  drew  up  before  a 
great  bare  unbeautiful  house  set  in  a  charming  old  park.  The 
owner  seemed  to  be  under  no  illusions  about  it.  '  I  have  nothing, 
I  regret  to  say,  like  Waldenstein  to  show  you  here,'  he  said, 
when  the  chimneys  emerged  from  the  trees. 

'It's  infinitely  more  comfortable,'  returned  Prince  Anton. 

'Horribly  new,  as  you  see,'  his  cousin  went  on  to  Lady  Peter- 
borough, 'built  on  the  site  of  the  old  place  in  my  father's  time 
when  taste  was — what  you  see.' 

'But  that  tower  nearly  hidden,  surely ' 

'Oh,  yes,  they  saved  that  and  the  picture  gallery.' 

'And  the  pictures  and  things,'  said  Anton.  'You'll  forgive 
me  the  Potteries,  Lady  Peterborough,  when  you  see  what  I 
mean.' 

'I  am  sorry  my  wife  and  boys  are  away.  You  must  try  to  put 
up  with  bachelor  entertainment.'  Graf  Wilhelm  led  the  way  into 
a  large  hall,  carpeted  with  skins  and  hung  with  trophies  of  the 
chase.  A  green  and  scarlet  macaw  on  its  perch  in  a  bay  window 
received  the  intrusion  with  a  watchful  silence,  but  on  anyone's 
near  approach,  began  describing  invisible  circles  in  the  air  with 
its  wicked-looking  beak. 

The  promised  Russian  tea  was  served  with  coffee  and  wines, 
and  the  imaginative  German  Kuchen,  on  tables  ranged  near  a 
porcelain  stove  that  reached  nearly  to  the  ceiling.  Lady  Peter- 
borough sat  near  the  source  of  the  mild  diffused  warmth,  drinking 
tea  with  rum  and  lemon,  highly  commended  by  her  host,  who 
for  his  own  part  drank  a  beverage  undiluted,  more  fiery  than 
tea.  'It  will  be  cold  driving  back.  You  will  have  to  lend 


A  DARK  LANTERN  97 

us  wraps,'  she  said,  with  an  obvious  drop  in  her  enthusiasm 
for  more  coaching  in  the  chill  of  a  late  afternoon,  however 
beautiful. 

Katharine,  realizing  in  herself  a  mood  of  growing  restlessness, 
interpreted  the  long  lingering  over  the  little  tables  in  the  pleasant 
hall,  as  pure  consideration  for  Lady  Peterborough's  aged  bones. 
She  and  the  host  did  most  of  the  talking.  The  effect  of  high 
spirits  that  Prince  Anton  had  presented  at  the  station  in  the 
morning,  and  during  the  earlier  part  of  the  drive,  had  degenerated 
hour  by  hour  into  something  like  a  nervous  vivacity  between  fits 
of  abstraction.  Why  was  he  so — so — what  was  it?  Katharine's 
happiness  of  the  earlier  day  suffered  conscious  check.  Her 
nerves  responded  nicely  to  the  uncertain  balance  of  his  own.  A 
sense  of  excitement  invaded  her,  very  different  from  the  quicken- 
ing joy  with  which  she  had  greeted  his  face  at  the  rail  way- carriage 
window.  A  move  at  last!  Lady  Peterborough  got  up  from  her 
comfortable  corner,  and  went  to  look  into  the  sunk  garden  Graf 
Wilhelm  had  been  talking  about.  'I  will  have  one  like  that  in 
Devonshire,'  she  said,  disregarding  the  cabalistic  circles  the 
macaw,  upon  her  approach,  at  once  began  to  describe  in  the  air 
with  its  writhing  head.  Lady  Peterborough's  next  remark  was 
drowned  by  a  horrible  shriek  from  the  bird.  Katharine  started 
up,  shaking  from  head  to  foot.  Anton  laughed.  'How  nervous 
you  are!' 

The  object  of  the  macaw's  malediction  looked  out  unmoved. 
'Very  nice.  Yes,  I  could  do  that  in  Devonshire.  Where's  the 
coach  ? ' 

'Isn't  it  there  yet?' 

'No.' 

'My  cousin  will  show  you  the  gallery  if  you  like  while  I ' 

The  host  caught  up  his  Tyrolese  hat.  Prince  Anton  roused  him- 
self with  sudden  animation. 

'  Of  course,  yes.  It's  this  way,  Lady  Peterborough.'  Through 
a  little  vaulted  passage  that  had  been  a  Gothic  porch,  they  reached 
a  vast  room,  bare  but  for  its  divans  and  occasional  bronzes  and 
the  pictures  on  the  wall.  The  windows  on  the  west  looked 
across  a  grassy  court  to  the  clock  tower,  standing  black  against 
the  sunset.  The  two  visitors  were  led  down  that  side  of  the 
long  gallery  past  the  older  paintings.  All  portraits  these,  and 

1 


98  A  DARK  LANTERN 

many  unsigned,  done  in  the  days  when  renown  was  oral  and  there 
was  less  to  remember.  In  a  world  not  yet  choked  with  rubbish, 
no  one  was  afraid  the  maker  of  a  fine  picture  or  a  fine  poem  would 
be  forgot.  Margraves  and  Princes,  Kings  and  Queens,  knights 

and  ladies 'Wilhelm  could  tell  you  stories  about  these 

people.  Some  of  them  have  places  in  the  songs  and  legends  of 
the  people,  but  I  am  no  good  at  remembering  such  things.' 

'Not  even  when  they're  about  your  own  ancestors?' 

'There  are  too  many,'  he  said  impatiently. 

'Ancestors  or  stories?' 

'Both.  Life  is  so  much  shorter  than  it  used  to  be;  we  have 

time  nowadays '  Lady  Peterborough  was  a  little  in  advance 

— he  lowered  his  voice:  'time  only  for  ourselves? 

Again,  and  more  acutely,  was  she  consicous  of  an  effect  of 
restrained  excitement  about  him. 

The  old  clock  struck  the  hour.  Lady  Peterborough  glanced 
through  the  window  and  compared  it  with  her  watch.  The 
action,  simple  as  it  was,  seemed  to  ruffle  him.  He  hoped  she 
was  not  bored  or  tired.  Would  she  sit  down  a  moment  here,  in 
front  of  the  Holbein?  This  was,  with  one  exception,  the  finest 
thing  in  the  collection. 

He  placed  her  to  the  best  advantage,  but  complained  of  the 
light.  No,  it  was  quite  right,  she  said.  But  he  rang  and  set  the 
garrulous  old  butler  to  drawing  the  curtains,  while  the  Prince  him- 
self went  about  turning  up  the  electric  light.  The  old  servant,  a 
little  dazed  by  the  command,  continuing  to  remind  Seiner  Hoheit 
that  there  was  still  quite  good  daylight  abroad,  began  on  the  right 
his  lowering  of  the  curtains.  'No,  this  side  first,'  Anton  said 
irritably,  and  Katharine  felt  that  he  was  appeased  only  when  the 
grim  old  clock  tower  was  shut  out  behind  scarlet  silk.  As  well 
as  if  he  had  told  her,  she  knew  that  he  wanted  the  face  of  time 
hidden,  the  fact  of  time  forgot.  Yet  he  and  she  were  not  alone 
— and  he  stood  committed  to  a  task  she  knew  was  little  to  his 
liking.  Why  was  he  setting  himself,  with  such  unwonted  deter- 
mination, to  show  off  the  gallery  to  the  best  possible  advantage  ? 
What  was  it  to  him?  And  the  answer  she  knew  was:  Time. 
But  why  this  time?  He  would  see  her  again  directly,  under 
conditions  far  more  favourable. 

'No,  don't  look  at  that  abortion,'  he  said,  hurrying  her  past 


A  DARK  LANTERN  99 

a  great  Rubens  ruddy  as  a  butcher's  shop,  ' here's  a  Rem- 
brandt.' 

'Surely  it  is  Saskia!' 

'Yes,  isn't  she  irresistible  in  her  plump  effrontery?  I  always 
want  to  pinch  her  cheek.' 

He  turned  suddenly  back  to  Lady  Peterborough,  and  bent 
over  her,  looking  back  at  Saskia  and  telling  some  story  the  picture 
had  recalled.  Lady  Peterborough  brightened  visibly  under  this 
infusion  of  narrative.  She  looked  round  as  Katharine  joined 
them.  Yes,  the  old  man  had  finished  his  task  with  the  many 
windows,  and  was  gone. 

'Well,'  demanded  Lady  Peterborough,  'what  news  from 
Waldenstein  ? ' 

Prince  Anton  hesitated,  and  then  with  an  air  of  aloofness  he 
seldom  adopted  with  Lady  Peterborough,  made  answer:  'Miss 
Dereham  shall  tell  you  that.' 

Katharine  was  sensitive  to  the  rebuff  administered,  more  by  the 
Prince's  manner  than  his  words;  Lady  Peterborough,  however, 
uttered  a  half -mocking  but  good-humoured  'Ahf  And  is  your 
cousin  perhaps  waiting  in  the  hall  meanwhile?' 

'Oh,  no,'  he  said,  with  a  return  of  his  friendly  animation,  'he 
will  join  us  here.  But  he  won't  forgive  me  if  I  show  you  so 
little.'  He  went  on  pointing  out  this  and  that.  'These  absurd 
old  Lucas  Kranachs  are  most  delightful  things  — every  bit  as  good 
as  any  the  Czar  has  in  the  Hermitage.' 

'That's  fortunate,'  said  Lady  Peterborough,  regarding  the 
queer  saint  a  trifle  sardonically.  '  For  I  shall  not  go  to  Russia  to 
inspect  the  Czar's.' 

'No  need  to  go  to  Russia.  Come  next  year  to  our  Deutsche 
Kunst-Ausstellung.  The  Czar  is  lending  us  his  Kranachs.'  He 
crossed  half-way  to  Katharine.  'I  never  allow  anyone  to  go  by 
without  paying  their  respects  to  Peter  Vischer's  dog.  You  have 
not  even  seen  him!'  He  halted  before  the  bronze. 

But  Katharine  had  yielded  herself  up  to  the  experience  of 
being  not  arrested  merely,  but  actually  hailed  by  the  glance  of  a 
face  that  looked  darkly  out  of  a  great  frame  farther  on.  A  man 
of  lean,  commanding  aspect,  high  ruff  and  gloved  hand  upon  his 
sword  hilt,  who  seemed  advancing  to  meet  her. 

'How  unmistakably  the  cavalier!'  she  said. 


ioo  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Yes,'  agreed  the  guide;  'van  Dyck  certainly  did  know  how 
to  paint  a  gentleman.  But  see  what  Peter  Vischer  could  do  with 
a  dog.' 

'You  talk  about  your  cousin's  knowledge  of  things  here,  but 
you  seem  to  know  the  gallery  rather  well,'  said  Katharine,  return- 
ing from  her  interview  with  the  cavalier. 

'Yes,'  came  the  caustic  old  voice  from  the  ottoman.  'This  is  ? 
new  light  upon  you,  Prince.' 

'How?' 

'I  had  not  realized  you  knew — cared  about  painting.' 

'Did  you  think  I  was  an  Englishman?'  he  asked  maliciously. 

Was  that  in  return  for  the  amused  patronage  of  'these  dear 
Germans!'?  He  had  not  seemed  to  mind  at  the  time  nor  even  to 
hear.  Katharine,  aghast,  hastened  to  say  the  first  thing  that  came 
into  her  head. 

'Is  Graf  Wilhelm  a  connoisseur?' 

'  Oh,  only  as  all  Germans  of  his  class  are.' 

A  distinct  snort  from  the  direction  of  the  Peterborough  divan. 
Prince  Anton  turned  to  her  a  face  conciliatory,  suave  once  more. 
'Of  course  I  admit  that  what  is  here  is  the  gathering  and  the 
sifting  of  centuries.  There  isn't  a  new  picture  in  the  collection 
but  the  Israels  and  two  or  three  other  things  of  the  modern 
Dutch  school,  except  that  Lenbach  over  there  of  Wilhelm's  wife.' 

'Ah!'  ejaculated  Lady  Peterborough,  giving  way  to  her  first 
expression  of  enthusiasm,  as  she  left  her  divan  and  crossed  that 
end  of  the  gallery,  to  stand  before  a  magnificent  presentment  of  a 
most  regal-looking  dame.  'Ah,  that's  painted  1  And  so  that  is 
the  Grafin!  Who  was  she?' 

'One  of  the  Detmolds.' 

'Really!' 

'No  one  who  sees  that  can  rightly  say  the  mistress  of  this  house 
is  not  at  home,'  said  Katharine.  'It  is  like  a  living  presence. 
Are  you  and  she  great  friends?'  Prince  Anton  smiled  and  led 
them  on,  saying  significantly: 

'  I  like  her  better  as  a  sister-in-law  than  I  would  as  a  wife.  She 
has  just  sent  for  poor  Wilhelm  post  haste.  He  has  to  leave  at 
cock-crow  to-morrow  for  Turin.' 

'Ah!  I  suppose  he  has  preparations  to  make '  observed 

Lady  Peterborough. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  101 

'Wilhelm?  Oh  no,  he'll  be  here  in  a  minute.  He  hoped  you 
might  care  to  see  the  Porcelain  Room.'  Prince  Anton,  with  a 
sudden  access  of  vivacity,  pushed  open  a  door  at  the  end  of  the 
gallery,  leading  into  a  much  smaller  apartment,  which  the  old 
butler  had  curtained  and  left  ablaze  with  light.  Glass  cases  in 
rows,  and  from  surbase  to  ceiling,  tiers  of  shelves  filled  with  ware 
that  gave  the  room  its  name.  In  the  cases,  old  ivories  and  jewels, 
cups  and  vessels  of  agate  and  blood-stone;  drinking  bowls  and 
tankards,  craftily  wrought  and  encrusted  with  rude  jewels; 
enamels  brought  from  the  Palace  of  the  Grand  Mogul;  mechanical 
toys;  a  hundred  beautiful  and  ingenious  things  done  in  the  days 
when  there  was  time. 

'Why,  it  is  a  museum!'  exclaimed  Katharine. 

'There  used  to  be  a  clock  here' — he  was  going  from  case  to 
case. 

A  queer  grunting  sound — then  an  explosive,  'Ich  hab'sl'  from 
the  end  of  the  room. 

'Ah,  is  that  you,  Borromaus?'  Prince  Anton  laughed. 

Between  a  high  cabinet  and  a  curtained  window,  under  a 
shaded  lamp,  a  man  sat  at  a  low  table  covered  with  tools,  bending 
with  distended  cheeks  over  a  blowpipe  held  to  a  spirit  flame. 
Deliberately  he  laid  aside  the  pipe,  and,  sticking  a  magnifying 
glass  in  his  eye,  looked  fixedly  at  a  shining  object  in  his  hand, 
while  he  gruffly  greeted  the  Prince. 

'Allow  me,  Lady  Peterborough,  to  present  to  you  a  genius. 
Herr  Borromaus  here  is  a  great  mechanical  expert — among 
other  things.'  The  shock-headed  gentleman,  having  got  up, 
took  the  glass  out  of  his  eye,  and  awkwardly  bowed.  'I  am 
sorry  to  say  he  is  also  a  socialist,  democrat — God  knows  what!' 
continued  the  Prince,  laughing.  'This  is  no  place  for  you, 
Borromaus.' 

'And  why  not?'  returned  the  man  sturdily. 

'Because  you  care  nothing  for  Art.' 

'  God  in  Heaven,  but  you  are  very  wrong  there.  I  care  greatly 
for  Art.' 

'  Impossible — impossible ! '  insisted  the  other.  '  Art  is  a  product 
of  selection,  conservation  of  the  best,  rigid  rejection  of  the  unfit. 
Nothing  here,'  he  waved  a  comprehensive  hand,  'nothing  here 
but  furnishes  argument  against  democracy.' 


102  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Far  from  it!  Here  I  sit,  surrounded  by  the  results  of  work, 
good  work.'  Borromaus  threw  back  his  great  head  with  a  glare. 
'Here,  at  least,  a  workman  may  feel  himself  at  home.' 

'Sophistry!  Nothing  here  but  emphasizes  the  value  to  the 
world  of  the  aristocratic  idea.  What  are  you  at?  Why,  you've 
got  the  clock.  This  was  the  thing  I  used  to  love  as  a  b&y.  You 
see  the  crystal  ball  ?  When  the  thing's  in  order  the  ball  runs  all 
round  this  gold  gallery.'  He  made  as  if  to  take  it  out  of  Borro- 
maus's  hands.  But  the  genius  drew  back,  guarding  the  old 
toy  from  profane  fingers.  'Let  me  have  it!  When  I  was  a  boy 
I  used  to  know  how  to  set  it  going.' 

'Yes,  to  going  wrong,'  muttered  the  man,  sitting  down  at  the 
table  again.  Since  the  Grafin  would  not  permit  the  clock  to  be 
taken  from  the  room,  it  was  plain  she  wanted  it  in  no  other  hands 
than  his,  Borromaus's — though  such  matters  were  not,  strictly 
speaking,  his  business. 

Prince  Anton  had  only  laughed  at  the  privileged  character. 
'No  need  to  apologize  for  your  amiability,  my  good  Borromaus. 
Die  schone  Grafin  gets  what  she  wants  out  of  doughtier  men 
than  you.  The  Detmolds  have  done  just  that  since  before 
Friederich  der  Starke  gave  one  of  them  that  clock.  No,  no,  it's 
not  a  bit  of  use  for  you  to  begin  one  of  your  harangues  in  this 
room.  Nobody  need  ask  a  better  argument  against  your  level- 
ling doctrines,  than  just  what  we  can  see  within  these  four  walls. 
Isn't  it  so,  Miss  Dereham?  If  it  had  been  not  for  the  reigning 
houses  and  the  nobles,  who  had  the  love  of  beautiful  things,  the 
money  to  pay  for  them,  and  the  power  to  guard  them,  how  much 
of  all  this  would  have  survived?  Who  of  the  men  who  made 
these  things  could  have  kept  them  from  destruction?  It's  no 
use,'  he  laughed,  turning  his  back  on  the  man.  'Learning,  art, 
all  that  went  to  make  civilization,  we  owe  its  survival  to  the 
noblesse.  Isn't  it  so,  Wilhelm?'  The  master  of  the  house  stood 
in  the  doorway  laughing. 

'Is  Borromaus  denouncing  you  again?' 

Small  need  to  ask,  with  denial,  argument,  instance  of  'the 
Republics  of  Italy,'  'Greece,'  flung  after  the  party,  as  they  re- 
turned through  the  picture-gallery — the  voice  of  the  agitator 
from  the  Porcelain  Room  drowned  in  Anton's  laughter,  and  the 
words  tossed  back:  'You  owe  everything  to  the  nobles,  I  tell  you 


A  DARK  LANTERN  103 

— it  was  they  who  recognised  the  good  thing  when  they  saw  it, 
who  encouraged  men  like  you  with  praise  and  pence — and  who 
handed  on  Art  as  they  handed  on  social  order.' 

'One  of  the  coach  horses  is  too  lame  to  drive,'  Graf  Wilhelm 
was  saying  to  Lady  Peterborough,  with  profuse  regrets. 

'I  suppose  you  can  get  us  to  the  station?' 

'Of  course,  of  course.     But  you  will  dine  first?' 

'What  are  the  trains?' 

'There  is  one  before  nine,  I  think.  But  I  have  sent  for  the 
new  Kursbuch.  I  will  bring  you  word.'  He  left  the  ladies  at 
the  gallery  door,  and  returned  to  the  hall.  Lady  Peterborough 
followed;  but  Katharine  went  back  to  look  at  her  Cavalier. 
Anton  had  disappeared.  He  would  return,  and  there  would  be 
time  for  a  quiet  word. 

When  Lady  Peterborough  reached  the  hall,  it  was  empty. 
She  went  over  to  a  table,  and  picked  up  a  French  novel.  The 
old  butler  came  in  grumbling  at  the  heels  of  a  brisk  young  foot- 
man, took  some  letters  from  him,  and  bade  him  go  about  his 
business.  Didn't  he  know  this  was  the  butler's  affair  ? 

Still  muttering  to  himself,  after  the  withdrawal  of  the  offender, 
the  old  man  ranged  the  letters  on  the  table — a  pile  for  the  master 
of  the  house,  for  Prince  Anton  one.  As  if  hypnotized,  Lady 
Peterborough,  staring  at  the  single  letter,  advanced  a  step  or  two. 
The  macaw,  craning  suspiciously,  and  ominously  circling  with 
its  head,  emitted  a  hoarse  shriek.  The  old  butler  started.  His 
nervous,  palsied  hands  knocked  the  single  letter  off  the  edge  of 
the  table  on  to  the  floor.  Catching  sight  of  the  visitor,  the  old 
fellow  bowed  deprecatingly,  and  mechanically  begged  pardon. 

'Schone  Schrift,'  said  Lady  Peterborough,  and  as  he  picked, 
the  letter  up,  face  down,  she  added,  'Ich  kenne  diese  Wappen,' 
and  she  looked  at  the  chiffre  under  the  embossed  armorial  bear- 
ings. 'Have  you  ever  seen  that  beautiful  writing  before?'  she 
demanded,  as  he  replaced  the  letter  on  the  table. 

'Every  day,  gnadige.  It  is  the,  as  you  say,  beautiful  hand- 
writing of  the  Princess  Margaretha  of  Breitenlohe-Waldenstein.' 

'Ah — "every  day."  The  Prince,  I  dare  say,  is  not  so  good  a 
correspondent  as  all  that.' 

'Not  perhaps  to  everyone.  But  to  her  Highness,  his  wife,  he 
writes  every  day,  or  very  nearly,'  he  said  with  approval.  'Ladies 


104  A  DARK  LANTERN 

are  not  pleased  when  they  have  no  letters — is  it  not  so,  gnadige?' 
— he  wheezed  out  a  laugh  and  doddered  away. 

Lady  Peterborough  turned  from  the  table,  and  walked  to  the 
armchair  by  the  tall  porcelain  stove.  But  instead  of  sitting 
down,  she  stood  there  looking  at  the  tiles.  In  communication 
with  her!  In  constant  communication!  Upon  Graf  Wilhelm's 
reappearance,  with  an  open  railway  guide,  she  did  not  turn  nor 
speak. 

'The  only  good  train,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  goes  in  three-quarters 
of  an  hour.' 

'That  will  do,'  she  answered. 

'It  leaves  scant  time  for  dining.' 

'  There  is  no  need.  We  will  sup  later.  Will  you  see  about  the 
arrangements  for  our  reaching  the  station?'  Graf  Wilhelm 
looked  sharply  at  her. 

'I  am  at  your  ladyship's  command,  but  I  had  hoped ' 

'Thank  you,'  she  interrupted  him.  'How  soon  can  we  have  a 
carriage  ? ' 

'Oh,  in  ten  minutes.  But  that  would  give  you  a  wait  at  the 
station.  Unless  indeed,'  he  suavely  presented  her  with  a  cloak 
for  her  sudden  inimical  mood,  'unless  you  care  to  look  into  the 
Dom  for  a  few  minutes.  It  is  very  fine  lit  up.' 

'No,  thank  you.     I  have  seen  enough  for  one  day.' 

'  So  ?    Entschuldigen '  he  withdrew. 

'Why  had  he  not  rung  the  bell  and  issued  his  orders  as  other 
men  did?  Humph!  There  was  a  great  deal  of  running  about. 
Humph!  I  suppose  I  made  him  feel  it  best  to  run — but  they 
have  curious  ideas  of  behaviour  here.' 

When,  but  for  the  disquieting  company  of  the  macaw,  she  had 
been  alone  sixteen  minutes  by  the  clock,  she  got  up  and  vigorously 
rang  the  bell. 

'Tell  Miss  Dereham — the  young  lady  who  is  with  me — that  I 
wish  to  see  her.' 

'The  lady » 

'Yes,  the  lady!     Go  quickly.     She  is  in  the  picture  gallery.* 

The  footman  hesitated  an  instant,,  and  then  disappeared.  He 
returned  to  say  the  lady  was  not  there. 

'Where  is  Prince  Anton?' 

'His  Highness  has  gone  out' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  105 

'Gone  out!  Graf  Wilhelm,  then.  Tell  your  master  Lady 
Peterborough  must  see  him  at  once,  instantly,  do  you  hear?' 

The  man  assured  her  that  he  did,  and  incontinently  departed, 
amid  renewed  screams  from  the  macaw. 

'If  they  leave  me  alone  much  longer  with  that  bird  I  shall 
wring  its  neck,'  she  decided. 

'Ten  thousand  apologies,'  began  Graf  Wilhelm,  entering 
hastily. 

She  cut  him  short.     'Where  is  Miss  Dereham?' 

'Miss  Dereham?  Oh,  she  thinks  she  would  like  to  see  the 
Dom ' 

'No!  It  is  too  late.  Be  good  enough  to  tell  her  to  come 
here.' 

'She  has  already  gone,  your  ladyship.' 

'Gone  I    How?' 

'In  the  landau.    My  cousin ' 

'  Does  she  imagine  there  is  time  to  go  on  her  fool's  errand  and 
come  back?' 

'Comeback?' 

'Yes,  for  me.     How  am  I  to  get  to  the  station?' 

'Your  ladyship  could  not  imagine I  have,  of  course, 

carried  out  the  commands  your  ladyship  laid  upon  me My 

wife's  phaeton  will  be  here  in  five  minutes.' 

Lady  Peterborough  glanced  angrily  at  the  clock. 

'Nearly  half  an  hour  ago  you  said  in  ten  minutes.' 

His  only  answer  was  to  ring  the  bell.  But  he  was  obviously 
very  ill  at  ease.  The  voice  and  aspect  of  this  guest  of  his  seemed 
to  have  as  disturbing  an  effect  on  him  as  it  obviously  had  on  the 
macaw. 

'Say  we  are  waiting,'  he  said  to  the  servant. 

'The  phaeton  is  here,  Herr  Graf.' 

'I  will  go  first  to  the  Cathedral,'  announced  Lady  Peterborough. 

He  hesitated.  'You  are  not  afraid  you  may  in  that  way  lose 
your  train  ? ' 

'Tell  your  man  to  drive  fast.' 

Looking  sharply  right  and  left  at  all  the  passers-by,  she  paid 
small  attention  to  the  conversation  her  host  made  by  the  way. 
Now  they  were  clattering  along  a  slanting  street,  and  now  they 
stopped  before  the  steps  of  the  Cathedral.  Graf  Wilhelm,  watch 


106  A  DARK  LANTERN 

in  hand,  observed:  'They  are  quite  sure  to  have  gone  to  the 
station  by  this  time,  but  I  will  just  glance  in.'  To  his  amaze- 
ment his  companion  insisted  on  getting  out  and  doing  the 
glancing  for  herself.  No  sign  of  Katharine  in  the  beautiful 
dim  spaces. 

'The  station!'  Graf  Wilhelm  said  to  the  coachman  impera- 
tively, as  he  handed  Lady  Peterborough  back  into  the  phaeton. 
'  We  must  not  lose  this  train/'  Off  again,  bowling  down  the  steep 
street,  while  Graf  Wilhelm  kept  up  his  polite  commentary  upon 
Gothic  architecture,  and  the  fine  mortuary  brasses  there  were 
here,  and  all  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  his  guest  was  at  no  pains 
to  disguise  her  total  lack  of  interest  in  Sidonia's  monument,  or  to 
conceal  her  own  anger. 

The  phaeton  dashed  up  just  as  the  train  came  into  the  station. 
With  incredible  agility  Lady  Peterborough  precipitated  herself 
out  of  the  pony  carriage,  and  made  for  the  platform,  Graf  Wilhelm 
following  close.  'This  way  for  the  Erste  Klasse,'  he  said. 

'I  don't  care  what  class.  Where  is  Miss  Dereham?'  She 
was  peering  among  the  few  passengers. 

'Miss  Dereham  is,  of  course,  in  the  train.  Let  me  help  you 
in,  and  then  I  will  go  and  find  her.'  He  took  hold  of  her  arm. 

'I  will  not  get  in  till  I  see  Miss  Dereham!'  said  Lady  Peter- 
borough, with  sudden  fire.  Graf  Wilhelm  drew  back,  as  she 
went  hurriedly  along  the  platform,  peering  in  at  Erste  Klasse 
windows,  and  saying  to  guards  and  Gepacktrager:  'Did  a  young 
lady  get  in  at  this  station  ? ' 

'Yes,  gnadige  Frau;  three  young  ladies.' 

'No,  I  saw  those  three.  I  mean  a  tall  Fraulein  with  a  grey 
hat.' 

'I  did  not  notice  their  hats.  Einsteigen!'  The  puard  held 
the  door.  Again  Graf  Wilhelm  offered  an  assisting  hand. 

'Not  till  I  know  she  is  here.' 

'You  will  lose  the  train  yourself!' 

Her  only  answer  was  to  draw  back.  The  guard  slammed  the 
door;  the  train  moved  off,  leaving  Lady  Peterborough  staring 
after  it.  Graf  Wilhelm  stood,  obviously  perplexed,  with  his 
hands  ic  his  overcoat  pockets. 

'Miss  Dereham  no  doubt  consoles  herself  thinking  vou  -are  in 
another  carriage.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  107 

'She  isn't  there  herself.     You  know  she  isn't  there!' 

'Your  ladyship  overestimates  my  powers  of  clairvoyance. 
But  I  should  have  thought  her  being  there  impossible  to  doubt.' 

Lady  Peterborough  was  taking  little  aimless  steps  up  and 
down  the  platform.  She  spoke  to  a  man  in  uniform  about  trains. 
Her  face  had  begun  to  wear  that  ghastly,  corpse-like  look  that 
unwonted  emotion  or  fatigue  will  quite  suddenly  imprint  upon 
the  old.  Under  the  greenish  station  gas  she  looked  a  hundred. 

Graf  Wilhelm  went  forward.  'The  slow  train  goes  in  fifty 
minutes.  Will  you  allow  me  to  order  dinner  for  you  at  the  hotel 
here?' 

'No.    You  will  take  me  back  to  Wilhelmsruhe.' 

'To  Wilhelmsruhe!'    He  stared. 

'To  Wilhelmsruhe.  And  I  will  look  in  again  at  the  Cathedra] 
on  the  way.' 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  Prince  Anton  came  back  into  the  gallery,  Katharine  was 
disappointed,  even  chilled,  at  his  proposal  to  go  and  see  the  Dom. 

'  Oh,  thank  you,  but  I  think  not.' 

'We'll  go  this  way,'  he  said.  Had  he  not  heard,  or  was  that 
his  way  of  accepting  her  decision? 

He  opened  the  west  door  of  the  gallery  and  led  her  across 
the  court.  He  walked  so  rapidly  that  she  had  some  difficulty 
to  keep  up  with  him;  and  he  added  no  single  word  to  his  'This 
way.'  How  much  more  a  creature  of  moods  he  was  than  she 
had  realized!  But  he  had,  no  doubt,  been  living  through  trying 
hours.  At  the  Tower  Gate  a  carriage  waited. 

'  But  I  said ' — while  she  was  trying  to  give  reasons  for  refusing, 
she  was  being  handed  in.  After  all  they  must  secure  some  little 
time  in  private.  She  must  know — he  no  doubt  wanted  to  tell 
her. . . .  She  turned  to  him  as  they  drove  off  through  the  beeches, 
only  to  find  her  hands  grasped  and  her  ears  filled  with  a  whis- 
pered torrent  of  emotional  German. 

Whatever  had  been  happening  at  Waldenstein,  however  the 
divorce  had  been  gained,  and  whenever  to  take  effect — such 
sober  considerations  must  needs  wait.  Not  all  unwillingly  she 
yielded  her  thirsty  soul  to  the  passionate  outpouring.  After 
the  days  of  waiting,  after  the  last  hours  of  suspense,  words  like 
these  fell  with  the  quickening  freshness  of  water  in  the  desert. 
Now  that  they  were  before  the  Dom,  he  did  not  even  pretend 
that  he  wanted  her  to  see  it.  He  glanced  at  the  time,  seemed 
to  go  through  some  rapid  mental  calculation,  and  then,  'Home!' 
he  said  to  the  coachman.  'Round  by  the  clock  tower  again.' 

'That  is  a  far  prettier  entrance  than  the  main  one,'  she  ap- 
proved, and  with  an  effort:  'But  you  must  tell  me  about ' 

108 


A  DARK  LANTERN  109 

'Yes,  yes,  when  we  get  in.  Drive  fast!'  But  he  had  not 
said  go  like  mad,  which  seemed  to  be  the  coachman's  interpre- 
tation of  the  order.  At  one  moment  Katharine  thought  the  horses 
were  running  away,  and  clung  tight  to  the  hand  that  held  hers. 
'There  is  no  danger,'  he  whispered,  and  took  up  the  old  theme. 
Not  merely  his  words,  not  only  his  nearness  were  at  work  upon 
her  hurrying  senses.  The  rapid  motion  wrought  as  well.  When 
they  drew  up  again  under  the  clock,  she  was  trembling  so  that 
in  getting  out  she  could  not  find  the  carriage  step.  The  Prince 
lifted  her  to  the  ground;  but  quickly,  almost  untenderly,  and 
led  the  way,  not  across  the  court  as  they  had  come,  but  into  the 
tower.  He  had  said  something  earlier  about  showing  her  'the 

other  part.'  'Not  to-night,  no,  dear  Prince '  but  all  day 

he  had  seemed  to  have  no  ears  for  'no.' 

When  she  found  him  going  up  a  narrow  stair,  she  stood  still, 
steadying  herself  against  the  wall.  'There  isn't  time!'  she  said. 

'Plenty,'  he  threw  back  without  pausing.  'It's  only  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  to  the  station.' 

'No,  twenty-five  minutes,'  she  returned  with  that  same  in- 
ward irritation  that  she  suffered  when  her  father  strained  the 
truth. 

'Time  for  a  little  talk,'  the  voice  came  down  out  of  the  dim- 
ness, drawing  her  up  after  it. 

The  effect  of  the  break-neck  drive — the  need  of  sharp  despatch, 
the  sense  of  the  much  to  say  and  more  to  hear,  and  the  flying 
minutes,  sent  her  hurrying  up  the  stair. 

'Why  not  sit  down  anywhere,'  she  pleaded,  'for  the  little  time 
we  have?'  No  answer — up  and  up  he  went.  When  he  gained 
a  landing  and  made  no  pause  even  here,  to  Katharine  following 
close  behind  the  broad  back,  came  a  realization  that  often  visits 
women,  of  the  power  that  lies  in  masculine  inexpressiveness. 

'We  shall  waste  all  our  precious  time  in  running  about  cor- 
ridors and  racing  upstairs,'  she  protested  breathless.  Neither 
word  nor  sign  as  he  went  on.  'I  can't  be  interested  in  this  old 

tower  to-night,  Anton.  I  can  think  only  of '  Up  and  up 

the  expressionless  broad  back  moved  before  her  eyes.  She  paused 
again:  'I  won't  look  at  the  armoury  to-night!'  The  figure  above 
moved  on.  What  coercive  power  in  an  ear  that  seems  literally 
not  to  hear  refusal!  The  mind  a  blank  to  it,  robs  the  refusal 


no  A  DARK  LANTERN 

of  its  least  effect,  nullifies  it  utterly.  More  than  once  during 
that  day  she  had  had  the  sensation  of  being  with  one  who  under- 
stands only  certain  phrases  of  the  language  she  was  speaking. 
Either  not  talk  at  all,  or  one  must  needs  say  what  can  be  made 
intelligible.  This  man  leading  the  way  up  the  dim-lit  stair,  did 
not  understand  'No.'  All  day  he  had  not. 

But  he  paused  at  last;  opened  a  door  and  held  it  for  her  to 
pass. 

'I  won't  look  at  anything,'  Katharine  said  breathlessly,  and 
then  stared  about  her  in  surprise.  A  small  lamplit  room  of 
luxurious  modern  furnishing.  'Where  is  the  armour?' 

He  laughed.  'Armour  is  of  no  use  here,'  he  said  in  German, 
— 'clean  out  of  date,'  and  he  came  towards  her  with  outstretched 
hands.  She  drew  back,  bewildered  yet  trying  to  marshal  her 
wits. 

'I  want  to  hear '  she  began. 

The  faint  scent  that  always  clung  about  him,  tobacco,  Russian 
leather  and  some  discreet  hint  of  flowers,  came  towards  her  like 
a  tide.  It  closed  about  her. 

'It  is  settled  at  last!'  he  said. 

'The  divorce?' 

'That  you  are  mine.' 

'Then  the  divorce  is  granted.' 

He  stopped  her  mouth  with  kissing.  Even  in  that  headlong 
moment,  the  horrible  intuitiveness  of  woman  descended  on  her 
like  a  curse — or  like  some  blessing  won  through  anguish.  As 
she  lay  that  moment  passive  in  his  arms,  the  great  struggle  of 
her  life  went  forward  in  her  soul:  'He  has  been  deceiving  me!' 
The  old  turmoil  of  the  mind  that  a  lie,  or  even  dread  of  lies,  pro- 
duced in  her,  gave  her  the  sense  that  all  the  securities  of  life  had 
failed  her,  all  standards  were  in  the  dust. 

If  this  man  did  not  speak  true,  then  was  chaos  come.  The 
main  fact  of  existence  was  not  that  she  was  shut  in  here  alone 
with  him — not  that  he  was  every  second  nearer  losing  what  was 
left  of  self-command — these  things  were  obscured  by  the  horror 
of 'he  lies.'  But  where  was  her  own  quick  sense  of  truth ?  Why 
was  she  taking  so  meanly  its  betrayal?  And  with  a  shuddering 
distinctness  she  saw  why  it  was  that  she  was  lamed. 

Truth  violated  even  in  the  secret  places  of  the  heart,  may  be 


A  DARK  LANTERN  in 

trusted  to  wreak  this  revenge,  deadening  perception,  hampering 
revolt.  And  in  the  secretest  place  of  all,  Katharine  Dereham 
had  known.  'I  have  felt  it  coming  all  the  afternoon — each  turn 
of  his  thought,  each  rush,  and  each  recoil  and  doubling — deep 
down  in  my  heart,  fathoms  below  admission  even  to  myself,  / 
have  been  conscious  0}  it  all.  No  innocent  maiden  trapped.  His 
accomplice,  I.' 

Yet  for  all  the  moment's  rude  unveiling  of  herself  to  herself, 
she  saw  in  flashes,  pictures  of  a  Katharine  Dereham  who  should 
play  at  being  caught,  stand  a  sympathetic  figure  in  the  general 
eye  while  she  tasted  the  sweet  of  yielding. 

'Anton,'  she  said,  'the  divorce  is  not  granted.' 

'She  is  Catholic,'  he  whispered  thickly,  holding  her  closer 
and  looking  into  her  face  with  half-shut  eyes. 

'She  is  right.  And  the  church  is  right,  and  you  and  I  are 
wrong,  all  wrong,  Anton.'  She  spoke  monotonously,  with  filling 
eyes.  He  laid  his  face  on  hers.  She  drew  away,  but  gently. 

'  It  would  have  been  kinder  to  write  me  the  truth  to  England,' 
she  said. 

'You  and  I  would  not  be  here  if  I'd  done  that.' 

'No — and  I  at  least  would  have  been  spared  some  of  this  pain.' 
She  turned  blindly  to  the  door.  A  quick  movement  and  he  in- 
terposed between  her  outstretched,  shaking  hand,  and  the  high- 
up  ancient  latch  of  heavy  iron. 

'There  is  no  time  for  more  now,'  she  said.  'I  will  go  back 
to  Lady  Peterborough.' 

'No!' 

'Oh  yes ' 

'I  do  not  mean  you  to  go  back.'  She  opened  her  lips.  He 
stopped  her.  'You  don't  in  your  heart  want  to.' 

'Lady  Peterborough ' 

'Lady  Peterborough  has  gone.' 

'She  would  never  do  that.' 

'I  tell  you  she  has  gone  without  you.  On  my  honour'  (Kath- 
arine shivered)  'she  is  gone.' 

She  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  staring  at  the  lamp.  Al- 
though he  came  and  knelt  beside  her,  his  low  words  seemed  to 
reach  her  from  a  long  way  off — things  he  had  never  dared  to 
say  plainly  before,  about  the  consecration  of  a  great  love,  about 


ii2  A  DARK  LANTERN 

the  holiness  of  freedom  in  these  high  affairs.  'Petty  middle- 
class  principles '  had  no  application  to  people  such  as  they. 

'I  seem  to  see/  she  said  at  last,  'how  well  you  have  prepared 
me  to  hear  all  this.  Little  by  little,  since  we  met  in  Rome,  you 

have No,  why  should  I  blame  you?  It  is  myself  who  is 

to  blame,  for  letting  go,  one  by  one,  the  things  that — that  I 
believe  I  cannot  live  without,  Anton.' 

'What  things?' 

She  shook  her  head  slowly,  and  the  tears  rose  again  to  her  eyes. 

'You  can't  give  them  to  me,  after  all.'  She  drew  her  hands 
away  from  under  his  lips,  and,  crying  softly,  she  rose  up.  Not 
seeing  the  door  for  tears,  she  yet  moved  towards  it. 

'Hushi  stop!  You  don't  understand:  one  must  speak  so  care- 
fully. You  are  lifted  up  or  hurled  down  with  a  phrase.  I  saw 
you  shrink  when  I  said  how  easily  that  "marrying  with  the  left 
hand"  could  be  done  to-morrow.  I  meant  to-night — and  what's 

in  the  left  hand  less  than  in  the  right '  he  took  her  shaking 

fingers  away  from  the  high  latch. 

'No,  no,  you  must  not  touch  me.  I — I  can't  think  when  you 
do.'  But  his  arms  were  round  her.  That  he  did  not  kiss  the 
face  was  because  the  face  was  hidden.  Over  the  bowed  head 
he  poured  out  an  excited  torrent  half  in  German,  half  in  English 
— his  boundless  devotion;  his  loyalty,  that  being  the  man  he  was, 
no  witnessed  vow  nor  legal  form  could  ever  hope  to  coerce,  but 
that  she,  the  lady  for  ever  regnant  in  his  heart,  would  find  her 

vassal  and  her  slave As  suddenly  she  lifted  her  white  face, 

and  looked  at  him,  he  recoiled:  'No,  no!'  he  exclaimed,  as  if  she 
had  spoken — and  then  on  a  lower  note,  'You  are  a  statue.  Not 
a  woman.' 

They  stood  there  breathing  quickly  in  the  silence,  looking  in 
each  other's  eyes. 

Then,  muttering  something  in  German  she  did  not  catch,  he 
set  his  broad  back  against  the  oaken  door,  and  looked  down 
upon  her  with  every  feature  set. 

She  came  closer.    He  did  not  move  an  eyelash. 

'Open  the  door,'  she  said. 

'  Do  you  imagine  for  a  moment  that  I  shall  ? ' 

'  It  is  impossible  for  you  to  keep  me  here  against  my  will.' 

'You  speak  as  though  such  a  thing  had  never  been  done.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  113 

'It  never  has  been.  Not' — the  trembling  lips  smiled  faintly 
— 'not  since  woman  realized ' 

'I  am  better  informed.     I  know  of  cases.' 

She  winced  inwardly.  Baria,  one?  Oh  no,  she  wore  the 
Prince's  favour  like  a  jewel  or  a  feather.  But  had  some  other 
confronted  him  here  in  the  tower — or  elsewhere  heard  these 
words  ?  The  sense  of  moral  sickness  made  her  physically  faint. 

'  You  have  not  known  of  a  case  like  this.  Not  where  the  woman 
really  did  not  want  to  stay.'  She  interrupted  his  prompt  as- 
severation. 'Oh,  yes,  where  she  pretended — pretended  very 
well.  But  not  really  wanted  to — meant  to  go,  as  I  do.' 

He  only  shifted  his  position  slightly,  leaning  more  heavily 
on  the  door.  Standing  so,  looking  at  each  other,  they  heard 
steps.  Anton  turned  sharply,  and  held  a  hand  ready  to  shoot 
the  heavy  bolt. 

'If  you  do  that,'  said  Katharine  very  low,  'I  shall  call  out.' 

'Anton!'     Graf  Wilhelm's  voice  pitched  cautiously. 

'Well!' 

'Come  here.    I  must  speak  to  you.' 

An  instant's  reflection,  and  Prince  Anton  opened  the  dook 
a  few  inches,  standing  with  hand  upon  the  latch  and  face  to  the 
intruder.  Katharine  never  moved  from  behind  the  door — every 
sense  strained  to  make  effectual  use  of  the  interruption. 

Graf  Wilhelm's  whisper,  perturbed,  angry,  reached  her  dis- 
tinctly, as  he  jerked  out  in  indignant  German:  '.  .  .  the  devil  to 
pay  downstairs.  She  refused  to  go  without  Miss  .  .  .  She  has 
insisted  on  returning  here.' 

'Good  God!'  the  Prince  ejaculated  under  his  breath. 

'She  is  questioning  the  servants,'  the  man  outside  added  in 
growing  agitation.  'You  mustn't  expect  me ' 

'What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about!'  the  Prince's  words 
were  addressed  to  Graf  Wilhelm — but  they  merely  marked  time. 
The  real  question  was  put  when  the  hand,  dropped  from  the 
latch,  was  held  out  in  silent  appeal  to  the  woman  behind  the 
door — the  ringers  groping  and  trying  to  fasten  on  her  arm.  She 
seemed  not  so  much  to  refuse  as  not  to  notice  that  vain  asking 
for  connivance — for  courage  to  carry  the  fight  to  a  finish. 

Katharine  came  quietly  round  behind  the  Prince,  and  over 
his  shoulder  nodded  to  the  man  without. 

8 


H4  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Already  train  time  is  it?'  she  asked  in  even  tones. 
At  sound  of  her  voice  Prince  Anton  drew  himself  up — suddenly 
another  man. 

'I  am  sorry  if  we  have  kept  Lady  Peterborough  waiting,'  he 
'  We  will  come  at  once.' 


CHAPTER  X 

IT  was  not  till  several  years  after  Lady  Peterborough's  death, 
that  Katharine  fully  understood  the  loyal  part  her  god-mother 
had  played. 

After  the  funeral,  she  and  Lord  Peterborough,  turning  their 
backs  on  the  big  silent  house  in  the  old  London  square,  had 
lived  abroad,  chiefly  in  Italy,  where  from  time  to  time  Colonel 
Dereham  was  with  some  difficulty  induced  to  visit  them.  His 
coming  seemed  to  gratify  no  one  save  Katharine,  but  Lord 
Peterborough,  more  and  more  dependent  upon  her,  withdrew 
his  old  objection  to  Colonel  Dereham's  society,  rather  than  be 
deprived  of  Katharine's.  She  realized  in  these  brief  visits  how 
her  father's  health  was  going  from  bad  to  worse,  his  old  easy 
temper  so  far  lost  that  it  was  difficult  to  find  even  a  valet  who 
would  live  with  him. 

Although  it  would  have  cost  Katharine  a  wrench  to  abandon 
her  kind  old  guardian,  she  was  self -reproached,  sore  even,  to 
see  how  little  her  father  seemed  to  want  to  have  her  with  him. 
Such  glimpses  as  she  got  of  the  kind  of  people  he  did  want, 
were  an  unending  surprise  and  chagrin.  She  more  than  once 
found  herself  regretting  Lady  Wick  and  the  red-faced  Captain, 
even  Mrs.  Heathcote,  who  seemed  to  have  dropped  out  of  the 
Hill  Street  life. 

If  from  the  spectacle  of  her  father's  physical  decline  she  shrank 
secretly,  as  the  woman  will  who  has  begun  to  husband  what 
is  left  her  of  her  own  youth — still  more  did  she  recoil  from  the 
analogy  in  Colonel  Dereham  between  the  bodily  undoing  and 
the  spiritual. 

The  old  resemblance  between  him  and  herself  that  had  been 
her  girlish  pride,  became  a  torment.  'Will  it  be  like  that  with 

"5 


n6  A  DARK  LANTERN 

me  too?  Is  this  the  real  horror  of  leaving  youth  behind — that 
one  is  like  to  leave  dignity  and  courage  on  the  same  rough  road 
where  we  lost  beauty?  Did  we  come  into  the  world  with  our 
arms  full  of  blessings,  and  is  the  true  story  of  each  life  a  mere 
telling  of  how  one  by  one  we  let  our  blessings  fall  ? ' 

'No,  no!'  she  reassured  herself.  The  worthiest  things  in  life 
we  might  keep  fast  hold  of  to  the  end,  if  we  cared  to.  The  great 
thing  was  to  care.  Truth  in  the  old  simile  that  life  was  like  a 
garden — left  to  itself  it  ran  to  nettles.  No  character  so  fine  it 
could  with  impunity  dispense  with  discipline,  a  ceaseless  watch- 
fulness, and  a  'war  on  weeds.'  Colonel  Dereham  had  let  his 
garden  run  to  seed.  Not  all  his  fault,  Katharine  maintained 
to  herself,  as  intent  as  ever  on  excusing,  justifying  him.  Wilfred 
Bruton  was  right  when  he  said  it  was  a  prime  defect  in  the  mili- 
tary system  that  a  man  was  shelved  at  a  time  of  life  when  he 
ought  to  be  doing  his  best  work,  thrown  on  his  beam  ends  too 
late  to  begin  anew,  and  with  an  experience  behind  him  that 
merely  unfitted  him  for  ordinary  civil  life.  If  only  she  could 
get  her  father  to  work  at  something!  But  in  any  case  she  would 
set  herself  to  tasks. 

So  it  was  she  fled  to  books,  and  burned  more  than  a  wise 
woman's  share  of  midnight  oil. 

When  the  Boer  War  broke  out  she  moved  heaven  and  earth 
to  get  her  father  back  again  into  active  service.  But  there  were 
too  many  younger,  keener  men  agog  for  the  chance  of  salting 
down  the  Boer  farms  with  English  bones.  Every  one  of  the 
men  that  she  had  laughed  and  danced  and  dined  with,  seemed 
to  have  claimed  his  right  to  a  share  in  the  protracted  struggle, 
that  Katharine  and  Lord  Peterborough  followed  with  maps  and 
newspapers,  hope  and  fear  and  horror. 

'Think  of  Bertie  being  so  keen  to  go  back  to  all  that!' 

'  Why  not  ? '  demanded  Bertie's  uncle. 

'Oh,  -well!'  Then,  seeing  Lord  Peterborough's  resentment 
of  her  tone,  she  hastened  to  add:  'I  can  understand  how  all 
those  young  men  in  the  first  enthusiasm,  with  the  fever  of  the 
popular  epidemic  in  their  blood,  and  in  sublime  ignorance  of 
what  the  step  involved ' 

'Bertie  Amherst  is  a  soldier  and  the  son  of  a  soldier.' 

'Yes,  yes,  I  know.     But  think  how  Bertie  loves  his  comfort 


A  DARK  LANTERN  117 

And  think  of  what  he  went  through  at  Ladysmith!  He  doesn't 
forget,  poor  dear.  And  yet  even  before  he's  well  of  his  wound, 
back  he  goes.' 

'You  never  did  Bertie  justice.' 

'And  all  the  others!'  Katharine  went  on.  'When  I  remem- 
ber the  pampered  lives  they've  led,  the  men  who  officer  the 
British  army,  and  then  think  of  them  down  there  marching 

on  the  burning  veldt — starving,  shot  to  pieces '  her  voice 

shook,  '  a  boy  like  Bertie  getting  out  of  his  sick-bed  and  hobbling 
back  to  his  post '  huskiness  swallowed  the  last  syllables. 

'I  tell  you,  you've  never  appreciated  Bertie.  But  there's 
nothing  surprising  in  what  he's  done' — the  proud  old  voice  was 
coerced  to  steadiness,  even  to  the  level  of  the  commonplace. 
'It's  always  been  like  that.  Read  your  history.' 

'There  have  always  been  brave  men.     But  these  are  men 

one   can't   imagine .     Idle,   luxurious,   as   you   must   admit 

Bertie  is — was  (I  beg  his  pardon,  bless  him!). — I  hear  him  now, 
saying  patriotism  was  all  rot,  and  he  was  just  going  out  for  the 
fun  of  the  thing.  Fun ! ' 

'Bertie's  afraid  of  nothing  more  than  a  suspicion  of  heroics. 
He  has  all  the  Englishman's  horror  of  a  fine  pose.' 

'You  are  like  that,  too.'    Katharine  smiled. 

'Humph!  That  may  be  the  only  reason  I  don't  like  to  hear 
the  type  belittled.  I  confess  I've  small  patience  with  the  modern 
notion  that  because  a  man  belongs  to  the  upper  class,  he  must 
therefore  be  a  poor  creature.  When  you  were  a  foolish  little 
girl  you  made  an  idol  of  one  of  these  men,  and  because  he  dis- 
appointed you,  you  seem  inclined  to  believe  with  the  popular 
novelists,  that  the  nobler  virtues  are  the  prerogative  of  the  name- 
less and  the  penniless.  It  isn't  so.  I  had  to  do  in  my  young 
days  with  men  of  all  classes.  And  I  tell  you  that  I  found  more 
fair  dealing,  courage,  honour,  in  my  own  class  than  I  did  any- 
where else.  If  you  think  I'm  prejudiced  ask  any  of  the  people 
who  know  both  sides.  Ask  the  great  bankers,  administrators. 
People  of  that  sort  will  all  tell  you  the  same.  The  other  point 
of  view  is  promulgated  to  please  the  mob.  We  are  the  People! 
they  like  to  think.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  that  a  man  who  has  half 
a  dozen  places  and  several  hundred  thousand  a  year  should  have 
any  virtues  to  boot.  And  so  from  wicked  baronets  up,  the  pop- 


u8  A  DARK  LANTERN 

ular  opinion  attaints  us  all.  The  novel  writers  are  middle-class 
themselves,  they  vaunt  their  own  at  our  expense — except  the 
smaller  fry,  who  make  us  out  splendid  and  idiotic.'  He  got  up 
and  walked  about,  a  thing  he  seldom  did  in  these  days.  'No! 
Bertie  Amherst  is  typical  of  what  I  mean.  His  South  African 
record  is  no  surprise  to  me.  It's  all  in  the  tradition.  We  have 
been  at  it  a  long  time.  Right  conduct  is  as  cultivable  as  chrysan- 
themums. Bertie's  record  is  no  "sport,"  as  the  men  of  science 
say — it  is  a  natural  product.  And  no  mean  thing,  my  dear. 
But  you've  never  appreciated  Bertie.' 

Katharine  found  herself  justified  in  cultivating  her  own  garden, 
developing  new  areas  of  enthusiasm,  reaching  out  towards  Art, 
and  flowering  in  poetry. 

Out  of  the  Italian  days,  the  days  of  their  voluntary  exile  from 
harassed  and  unhappy  England,  had  come  a  little  sheaf  of  verse 
that  Lord  Peterborough  told  her  marked  advance,  even  mastery. 
Believing  the  time  was  ripe,  both  in  Katharine's  life  and  in  her 
practice  of  her  gift,  he  showed  some  of  the  later  poems  to  an 
English  man  of  letters.  The  none  too  complaisant  critic  was 
stirred  to  something  like  enthusiasm.  He  got  leave,  after  some 
persuading,  to  put  his  own  verdict  to  the  rough  and  ready  public 
test,  by  printing  one  of  the  poems.  The  success  of  the  experi- 
ment led  to  its  repetition.  The  new  distraction  helped  Kath- 
arine through  halting  days;  for  the  unwilling  realization  was 
being  forced  upon  her  that  she  was  growing  less  able  'tc  garden,' 
as  she  called  it.  Had  she  kept  too  closely  to  her  books  of  late? 
Or,  she  speculated  miserably,  was  this  the  beginning  of  the  long 
decline  that  had  brought  her  father  to  the  shadowed  place,  where 
he  walked  with  uncertain,  shambling  feet,  and  that  changed  face 
with  the  discoloured  daubs  under  eyes — eyes  that  seemed  not 
to  see.  She  consulted  more  than  one  doctor,  and  learned  by 
that  sure  means  to  believe  herself  very  ill.  Nevertheless,  when 
news  came  that  Colonel  Dereham  on  his  return  to  England  had 
suffered  a  relapse,  she  rushed  across  Europe  to  be  with  him, 
only  to  find  herself  rigorously  shut  out  of  the  sick-room.  But 
she  stayed  on,  going  to  him  whenever  permission  was  granted, 
till  the  convalescence  was  well  advanced,  and  he  had  persuaded 
her  that  she  had  left  Lord  Peterborough  alone  long  enough. 
A  few  months  later  the  same  thing  happened  again,  only  Wies- 


A  DARK  LANTERN  119 

baden  this  time  the  scene.  Again  the  waiting  outside  a  guarded 
door,  that  opened  at  last  to  show  the  wasted  gray-green  face, 
the  shaking  hands,  the  uncertain  temper,  the  undisguised  desire 
to  be  left  alone.  Katharine  learned  forbearance  and  lost  yet 
more  of  her  buoyancy  and  bloom  in  her  father's  sick-room,  but 
she  never  abandoned  her  hopes  for  seeing  him,  her  plans  for 
making  him,  strong  again  and  'very  nearly  happy.'  It  was  to 
be  'her  work.'  Being  Lord  Peterborough's  adopted  daughter 
was  an  office  too  easy  and  pleasant  to  seem  a  duty.  Her  own 
father  was  her  life's  problem.  No  matter  how  small  encourage- 
ment he  gave  her,  to  see  him  in  better  case  was  her  mission,  in  a 
world  out  of  which  hope  of  personal  happiness  had  died. 

Matters  stood  so  the  winter  after  the  Wiesbaden  experience, 
when  Katharine  put  an  end  to  days  of  anxiety  at  the  cessation 
of  all  news  from  Hill  Street  (save  a  disquieting  scrawl  from  a 
servant)  by  declaring  that  she  would  leave  for  England  the  fol- 
lowing day.  Lord  Peterborough  and  the  Italian  doctor  stoutly 
opposed  her  plan. 

But  she  was  quite  strong  enough,  she  protested.  Was  she 
not  going  out  that  very  night,  a  thing  she  had  not  felt  able  to 
do  for  weeks  ? 

'You  are  doing  it  only  to  please  an  old  friend.  If  I  had  seen 
Mary,  I  would  have  told  her ' 

Katharine  cut  the  remonstrance  short.  She  must  attend  to 
some  shopping,  there  were  things  she  wanted  for  the  journey. 

As  she  drove  past  the  Grand  Hotel,  one  of  two  men  coming 
out  of  the  court  paused  and  lifted  his  hat.  For  a  moment, 
summoned  from  such  distance  of  abstraction,  she  stared.  Then 
by  a  painful  stirring  of  the  heart,  she  knew,  when  she  had  passed, 
that  it  was  Prince  Anton.  Oh  no,  nothing  would  induce  her  to 
look  back.  She  was  glad  she  had  not  known  him;  still  more 
glad  that  she  was  going  away  from  Rome.  But  he  contended 
with  her  father  the  rest  of  the  day  in  her  thoughts.  The  hurried 
glimpse  had  been  a  little  cruel  to  him;  represented  him  as  altered, 
heavy,  dimmed.  The  sense  of  the  change  in  him  haunted  her 
unpleasantly,  like  a  libel  on  the  dead. 

Lord  Peterborough  had  decided  that  since  Katharine  was 
not  to  be  dissuaded  from  this  journey  that  he  was  sure  she  had 
not  strength  for,  he  would  go  too.  By  way  of  preparation, 


120  A  DARK  LANTERN 

he  said,  but  obviously  being  himself  out  of  sorts,  he  went  early 
to  bed. 

Katharine  sat  in  the  great  room  trying  to  read  while  she  waited 
to  be  called  for.  Not  wholly  to  please  the  Duchess  of  Worcester 
was  she  going  to  the  Palace  to-night.  She  found  herself  in  a 
mood  of  mingled  bodily  and  mental  restlessness,  when  to  sit  at 
home  and  prosecute  studies  of  the  Art  of  the  Renaissance  was 
beyond  her  power.  To  be  doing  again  'the  old  things,'  seeing 
the  old  sights,  hearing  the  old  familiar  jargon,  would  keep  at 
bay  the  new  anxiety,  the  old  pain.  Still,  'Ought  I  to  go?'  she 
found  herself  wondering.  'Will  he  be  there?'  The  opening  of 
the  door  behind  her,  that  meant  Giovanni  was  come  to  announce 
the  Duchess's  carriage,  cut  self-questioning  short.  'What  a 
good  thing  she  is  a  little  before  her  time!'  Katharine  dropped 
her  book,  and  got  up  to  put  on  a  cloak.  As  she  turned  she 
found  herself  looking  into  Prince  Anton's  face.  She  was  too 
surprised  to  speak.  And  now  he  was  bending  over  her  hand, 
uttering  old  phrases  in  the  old  way.  Yet  how  different  it  all 
was.  Then,  after  a  pause,  at  last  something  without  the  sting 
of  association:  'You  are  not  changed  at  all.' 

'Oh  yes,  I  am,'  she  found  voice  to  say. 

'I  should  be  glad  to  hear  you  were  changed,  in  one  respect.' 

'I  am  older,'  she  said  quietly. 

'I  was  thinking'  (a  touch  of  criticism  in  his  tone,  to  meet 
her  irresponsiveness)  'that  you  perhaps  no  longer  waste  time 
looking  for  the  impossible.' 

'There  are  at  least  some  impossibilities  that  I  no  longer  look 
for.'  She  stood  very  straight  and  tall  in  the  long  white  cloak 
hanging  loose  on  her  shoulders  and  falling  to  her  feet. 

He  drew  off  a  trifle  and  surveyed  her. 

'You  are  wonderful  to-night — you  are  more  wonderful  even 
than  I  remembered.' 

'And  you  have  time  to  remember?'  she  asked,  recalling  recent 
rumours. 

'Not  only  time  to  remember,  but  to  come  to  Rome  to  see 
you.' 

She  looked  at  him,  a  prey  to  sudden  anger,  not  that  he  had 
not  come  to  Rome  for  her,  but  that  he  should  say  he  had.  As 
her  eyes  rested  on  the  wide,  heavy  face,  the  sudden  fire  in  her 


A  DARK  LANTERN  121 

own  died,  giving  way  to  a  curious  new  shrinking,  leagues  away 
from  the  old  delicious  fear. 

'How  could  you — how  could  you  do  it?'  he  said  very  low. 
She  thought  he  was  going  back  upon  the  past,  and  kept  silence. 
But  behold,  memory  with  him  meant  as  of  old,  yesterday.  'To 
go  by,  like  that — without  the  faintest  little  sign.  How  could  you, 
Katharine ! ' 

She  looked  at  him  steadily:  'I  didn't  know  you,'  she  said. 

His  laugh  was  a  trifle  forced.  'You  want  to  pretend  I  am 
so  changed  as  that?' 

'We  both  are  changed,'  she  repeated.  'Let  us  be  glad/  She 
held  out  her  hand. 

'You  are  not  dismissing  me?' 

'I  am  going  out.     Here  is  my  friend.' 

'I  will  come  to-morrow.' 

The  words  came  back,  again  and  again,  as  the  train  hurried 
her  towards  England — each  time  she  remembered  the  Duchess's 
smiling  confirmation  of  the  gossip,  as  to  what  had  really  brought 
Waldenstein  to  Rome. 

***•«* 

Katharine  had  not  wanted  Lord  Peterborough  to  come 
with  her  on  this  hurried  journey  to  England.  She  was  even 
harassed  by  his  presence.  On  arrival  in  London,  telling  only 
Natalie  of  her  plan,  she  left  the  old  man  at  the  platform's  edge, 
saying  'how  do  you  do,'  to  the  coachman,  jumped  into  a  hansom, 
and  drove  straight  to  Hill  Street.  A  remembrance  flashed  across 
her  of  that  other  far-away  day  when,  after  meeting  Anton  in 
Rome,  she  had  hurried  in  this  selfsame  way  to  her  father,  in  hot 
haste  to  tell  her  wonderful  news.  She  remembered  the  discon- 
certing apparition  of  the  Heathcote  woman  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  how,  to  get  the  taste  of  that  encounter  out  of  his  mouth,  her 
father  had  taken  her  to  Lady  Wick's — showed  her  that  queer 
society  which  she,  nevertheless,  had  grown  to  envy  for  him,  in 
preference  to  associations  more  doubtful  still.  That  was  the 
night  she  had  met  the  strange  young  man  who  had  haunted  Hill 
Street  after,  and  watched  her  at  the  opera,  followed  her  in  the 
Park,  and  finally  forced  Peterborough  House  itself.  Does  a 
woman  ever  quite  forget  a  man  who  has  made  her  feel  he  really 
cared?  She  wondered.  Men,  of  course,  forgot — even  a  man 


122  A  DARK  LANTERN 

like  Lord  Peterborough.  Had  he  not  said,  when  the  wound  that 
Waldenstein  made  was  new — had  Lord  Peterborough  not  said 
that  she  would  sit  one  day  as  he  did  that  night,  trying  to  recover 
a  twinge  of  the  old  anguish,  and,  like  him,  fail?  It  was  not  so. 
Even  through  all  the  disillusionment  of  this  last  meeting,  the  old 
wound  throbbed  and  ached.  If  the  old  love  stood  for  nothing 
but  pain,  it  did  stand  for  that. 

The  cab  stopped.  Her  father!  The  fingers  shook  as  the 
purse  was  searched  for  the  fare.  As  she  was  getting  out, 
casting  anxious  looks  at  windows  that  gave  no  sign,  a  news- 
boy rushed  past  crying  an  extra.  'Latest  war  news!  Another 
Disaster!' 

Bertie!  Poor  Lord  Peterborough  would  forget  all  about  her 
in  buying  up  newspapers,  and  looking  with  frightened  old  eyes 
for  Bertie's  name  among  the  killed. 

Not  at  all  of  Colonel  Dereham  was  she  thinking  at  that  mo- 
ment when  she  rang  the  bell,  but  of  poor  Bertie,  to  whom  she 
had  'never  done  justice,'  and  of  his  prefacing  the  perennial 
question  that  last  time  with:  'If  you  say  "no,"  now,  I  shan't 
worry  you  again.'  She  knew  he  had  said  afterwards  to  Cray- 
bourne:  'I  shall  manage  not  to  come  home.'  Tears  rose  in  her 
eyes.  'And  all  my  life,'  she  said  to  herself,  'I've  loved  Bertie  in 
a  way.' 

'Latest  war  news!'  the  boy's  voice  came  back  from  round 
the  corner.  'Fresh  Disaster!' 

Gibb  opened  the  door. 

'My  father — how  is  he?' 

The  man  looked  scared. 

'He  is  very  ill?'  She  leaned  against  the  table  in  the  hall. 
'He  is  dead!' 

'No,  no,  miss;  only  a  little  unwell.  He  will  be  able  to  see 
you  to-morrow.' 

She  flung  off  her  heavy  travelling  cloak,  and  ran  up  the  stairs, 
conscious,  with  rising  excitement,  of  the  agitation  of  the  servant 
who  pursued  her,  saying  he  had  orders  not  to  admit  anyone; 
it  was  as  much  as  his  place  was  worth.  He  even  dared  to  lay 
hold  of  her  sleeve.  She  must  not  go  in. 

She  turned  suddenly  upon  the  man  and  asked  haughtily:  'Is 
Colonel  Dereham  not  alone,  then?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  123 

'Oh  yes,  miss,  he  is  alone,  but '    She  shook  him  off,  and 

opened  the  door. 

****•# 

It  was  the  night  after  that  scene  of  horror,  that  she  understood 
better  old  Lady  Peterborough,  and  her  action  all  those  years 
ago.  She  had  sent  Colonel  Dereham  to  Boulogne,  but  not 
merely  to  checkmate  Katharine's  Hill  Street  visit,  not  solely  to 
keep  the  girl  at  her  own  side.  Most  of  all,  she  had  done  it  to 
shield  Katharine  from  this  knowledge  she  had  gained  at  last, 
to  keep  his  daughter's  eyes  from  seeing  Henry  Dereham  as  Lady 
Peterborough  had  found  him  that  morning:  'Only  half  alive, 
ghastly,  opium-sodden.' 

'She  asked  him,'  Lord  Peterborough  told  Katharine,  'if  he 
wanted  to  run  the  risk  of  your  rinding  him  like  that.  He  had 
just  enough  wits  left  to  pray  her  to  avert  the  last  sole  degradation 
that  had  power  to  make  him  shrink.  If  he  went  away,  he  said, 
he  could  pull  himself  together.  And  she  helped  him  to  go.' 

Katharine,  swiftly  reviewing  the  years,  saw  in  what  fashion 
he  had  kept  his  word — and  understood  other  things  as  well, 
that  had  hitherto  been  hid.  In  spite  of  Lady  Peterborough's 
right  about  face  after  discovering  that  Waldenstein  was  still 
in  communication  with  his  wife,  the  girl  had  reproached  her 
bitterly,  beginning  with  the  frustration  of  the  Hill  Street  visit. 

Katharine  did  her  justice  now,  remembering  how  she  had 
never  defended  herself  from  the  charge  of  having  instigated 
Colonel  Dereham's  flight  to  Boulogne,  for  the  purpose  of  serving 
her  own  frivolous  and  ill-starred  ends. 

'What  would  you  have  done,'  Katharine  remembered  de- 
manding at  the  height  of  her  misery  and  reproach,  'if  Graf 
Wilhelm  had  not  brought  me  down  that  night?' 

'Insisted  on  searching  the  place  myself.  It  is  never  wise 
to  force  a  man  into  incriminating  admissions — far  better  to 
indicate  his  loop-hole  of  escape.  But  if  Waldenstein  and  his 
cousin  had  not  crawled  out ' 

'What  then?' 

'I  would  have  pulled  the  place  about  their  ears.  There  would 
have  been  little  Ruh  at  Wilhelm's.'  The  old  face  looked  out 
of  the  grave  again.  More  life  in  it  still  than  in  the  glazed,  horror- 
haunted  eyes  of  the  man  in  Hill  Street. 


BOOK  II 

THE  BLACK-MAGIC  MAN 

CHAPTER  I 

AFTER  the  protracted  strain  of  taking  Colonel  Dereham  to 
Paris,  and  establishing  him  in  a  private  hospital  for  the  cure 
of  victims  of  the  morphia  habit,  Katharine  returned  to  Peter- 
borough House  very  ill,  and  glad,  on  the  whole,  to  think  she 
was  probably  dying. 

As  she  had  done  abroad,  so  now  in  England,  to  please  Lord 
Peterborough,  she  saw  more  than  one  great  doctor,  who  promptly 
discovered  that  that  organ  which  he  called  his  specialty  was  in 
need  of  medical  attention.  Several  agreed  that  the  action  of 
the  heart  was  not  quite  normal  (upon  which  verdict  the  patient 
would  smile  ruefully  in  secret),  and  they  were  all  of  one  opinoin 
— that  rest,  and  a  fine  variety  of  drugs,  would  ultimately  restore 
her  to  perfect  health. 

In  turn  she  obeyed  the  directions  of  each  of  these  gentlemen, 
just  as  she  had  before  obeyed  those  of  various  foreign  advisers, 
and  with  precisely  the  same  result,  save  that  now  she  was  slowly 
but  steadily  growing  weaker.  As  month  succeeded  month,  she 
saw  how,  given  a  certain  tenacity,  which  most  assuredly  was  hers, 
the  body  may  maintain  against  the  forces  that  make  for  its 
undoing,  a  resistance  gallant  and  tragically  long.  Dear  heaven! 
it  was  as  hard  to  die,  as  it  was  to  get  well.  It  might  take  years 
— years  in  which  she  would  lose  little  by  little  the  last  remnant 
of  physical  strength;  looks  (a  vision  of  her  father  rose),  perhaps 
even  will  and  dignity,  would  go  before  she  would  be  rid  of  this 
fast-clinging,  unwelcome,  inveterate  life. 

124 


A  DARK  LANTERN  125 

Obeying  the  doctors'  orders,  she  went  out  very  little — only 
on  rare  occasions  to  Lady  Algernon's  with  Lord  Peterborough, 
or  alone  to  Blanche  Bruton's  now  and  then,  or  to  hear  a  little 
music,  or  drive  round  and  round  the  Serpentine  on  fine  days 
with  the  frail  old  man,  for  whom  she  had  come  to  feel  a  daughter's 
affection. 

At  the  end  of  July  they  went  to  Scotland.  September  brought 
them  South  to  entertain  a  houseful  at  Devon  Court,  and  early 
October  found  them  once  again  in  London. 

During  the  time  in  Scotland  she  had  written  a  poem,  to  which 
she  gave  the  name  of  the  month  just  ending.  It  was  really  a 
good-bye  to  summer  in  more  than  the  calendar's  sense.  The 
idea  came  up  from  the  South,  brought  across  the  Highlands  in 
a  sack  of  the  prosaic  London  post — a  silver  printed  bidding  to 
Dolly  Weare's  wedding. 

That  child  a  bride!  How  old  it  made  one  feel!  It  seemed 
as  if  everybody  of  Katharine's  own  standing  had  already  married 
— now  it  was  the  turn  of  babes  and  sucklings.  Dolly!  Yes, 
after  all  she  must  be  eighteen. 

How  chill  this  Highland  air!  There  was  a  yellow  leaf.  Oh 
yes,  summer  is  waning,  and  soon  we'll  be  saying  'It  is  gone!' 

She  put  her  verses  into  the  mouth  of  a  woman  who  sees  the 
summer  end,  without  having  felt  it  warm  and  quicken,  a  woman 
to  whom  the  tradition  of  its  teeming  richness  is  a  legend  and 
reproach.  Katharine  signed  her  initials  and  sent  the  verses  to 
an  evening  paper.  The  thought  of  that  woman  of  her  fancy 
who — unlike  herself,  as  Katharine  insisted — saw  the  summer 
dying  without  ever  having  seen  it  flame,  the  thought  of  her  was 
much  with  Katharine  in  those  days,  helping  her  to  bear  her  own 
less  sorry  burden.  For  worst  of  all,  she  told  herself,  must  be 
to  come  to  Autumn,  without  ever  having  known  that  Summer 
in  the  heart. 

But  here,  too,  in  Devon,  the  imaginary  woman  haunted  her. 
Katharine  sang  'September  in  the  South'  as  seen  through  eyes 
like  those.  And  when  October  came,  she  shared  the  dim  and 
tender  days  with  this  sister  of  the  heart,  who  needed  to  be  com- 
passionated, this  inarticulate  one  whose  grief  was  eased  by  find- 
ing at  last  expression.  Katharine  began  to  get  letters  of  wonder- 
ing praise,  and  to  hear  of  the  Singer  of  the  Months  as  a  rare  new 


126  A  DARK  LANTERN 

voice.     She  planned  a  Kalendar.     Each  month  should  give  a 
leaf  out  of  the  woman's  stqry. 

The  Brutons  were  back  from  a  round  of  visits,  and  Katharine 
dined  with  them  the  night  after  her  own  return.  She  stayed  on 
when  the  others  had  gone,  talking  with  Blanche  over  the  fire. 
Wilfred  had  rung  to  ask  for  his  letters,  and  had  gone  away  with 
them  to  the  library. 

'I've  had  a  letter  from  Bertie  Amherst,'  the  hostess  said  after 
a  pause. 

'Yes?' 

'He  complained  you  never  wrote  to  him.     He  asked  for  news.' 

'Dear  old  Bertie.' 

'He  doesn't  seem  as  glad  as  other  people  that  the  war  is  prac- 
tically ended.' 

'Does  he  say  that?' 

'No,  but  he  asks  me  what  I  mean  by  congratulating  him  on 
coming  home.  "I  never  get  anything  I  really  want,"  he  says — 
"not  even  when  it's  a  Boer  bullet." 

'Poor  old  Bertie.' 

***** 

Blanche  was  the  only  one  she  ever  allowed  to  speak  to  her 
of  Prince  Anton.  She  told  her  now  of  that  last  vision  of  him. 
How  afraid  she  had  been  of  meeting  him.  'But  I  saw  that 
night  that  I  need  never  be  afraid  again.'  For  at  last  she  had 
seen  the  real  man.  Seen  the  moral  poverty  of  the  creature; 
seen  even  the  mere  animal  beauty,  dimmed  and  coarsened. 
Something  heavy  and  gross  in  the  great  figure  and  the  wide 
face,  that  travestied  memory.  And  yet  memory  at  its  best  and 
brightest,  what  had  it  to  reflect?  This  man's  weakness,  self- 
indulgence,  and  radical  untruth.  He  had  lied  and  lied;  was 
lying  to-day,  would  lie  to-morrow,  would  be  lying  with  his  latest 
breath.  'And  for  that  I  have  given  my  youth!' 

But  she  shrank  even  from  Blanche's  comment,  and  inter- 
rupted her  hurriedly:  'They,  too!  How  they  lied,  all  those 
people  that  were  here  to-night,'  said  Katharine  wearily.  'Give 
me  another  cigarette.' 

'Lied?'  Blanche  handed  her  the  tortoise-shell  box,  and 
pushed  the  spirit-lamp  across  the  polished  top  of  the  low  re- 
volving bookstand. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  127 

'Yes,  don't  pretend  they  didn't,  or  I'll  lose  faith  in  you.* 
'They  didn't  lie  about  the  stir  your  Kalendar  is  making.     I've 

heard  the  most  critical  people  — 

'They  lied  when  they  said  how  well  I  was  looking.' 

'  Oh,  that's  a  form  of  saying  they're  glad  to  see  you  again.' 

'It's  a  relief  that,  with  you,  any  gladness  you  may  feel  doesn't 

take  the  shape  of  uttering  inanities  about  my  personal  appear- 

ance.' 

'Well,  you  know,  Kitty,  you  are  uncommon  good  to  look  at 

even  if  -  ' 


But  Blanche  stirred  the  fire. 

'  --  if  I've  no  more  colour  than  the  tablecloth?  If  my  eyes 
are  pushed  back  in  my  head.  If,  in  short,  I'm  ghastly.' 

'Did  you,  after  all,  consult  Dr.  South?' 

'Yes,  eight  weeks  ago  —  with  the  result  you  see.' 

'I've  been  wanting  for  some  time'  —  Mrs.  Bruton  hesitated. 
'Wilfred  discouraged  me.  And  I  agree  with  him  it's  a  great 
responsibility  to  advise  anyone  to  give  up  one  doctor  and  call 
in  another,  especially  -  '  She  looked  at  Katharine's  listless 
face.  'But  I've  been  longing  to  talk  to  you  about  a  man  who 
really  is  very  extraordinary.' 

Ah,  how  well  she  knew  this  preamble  to  the  recommendation 
of  a  new  doctor!  She  threw  her  cigarette  in  the  fire,  stretched 
her  slim  body  till  her  satin  toes  touched  the  fender,  and  with 
both  arms  uplifted  rested  her  blonde  head  in  her  locked  hands. 

'They  say,'  Blanche  Bruton  went  on,  'it  was  he  really  who 
kept  the  Queen  alive.  She  was  far  more  ill  than  the  public 
knew  —  tried  all  the  usual  things,  and  then,  one  fine  day,  to  the 
horror  and  consternation  of  the  Court  Physicians,  she  sent  for 
this  -  ' 

Katharine  unintentionally  marked  her  scant  concern  in  the 
story  by  letting  her  hands  drop  suddenly  from  behind  her  head, 
and  bending  down  to  examine  the  delicate  pattern  chased  on  the 
little  antique  lamp.  Blanche  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then 
took  a  fresh  start.  'Lord  Danby,  and  now  my  brother  Jim, 
they  swear  by  him  —  and  at  him,'  she  added  with  a  laugh. 

'Why  do  they  swear  at  him?'  inquired  Katharine,  making 
her  first  feeble  sign  of  interest. 


i28  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Oh,  he  goes  for  them  so — so Says  such  things,  my 

dear '  and  she  laughed  again  as  she  fitted  another  cigarette 

into  a  holder. 

'What  kind  of  things?' 

'Well — a — don't  Sir  William  Mclntosh,  and  the  rest,  tell  you, 
for  instance,  that  a  person  with  a  heart  ought  not  to  smoke?' 

' not  smoke  a  great  deal,  they  say.  But  they  smoke  them- 
selves, and  they  know ' 

'Well,  this  man  I'm  telling  you  about  says,  no  tobacco  at  all 
and  no  wine.  And  he  gets  into  the  most  appalling  passion  if 
you  don't  do  as  he  tells  ycu.  When  he  found  out  that  poor 
Jim  had  smoked  half  a  cigar,  he  made  the  most  awful  observa- 
tions you  ever  heard  in  your  life — (Jim  wouldn't  repeat  all,  he 
said).  But  when  the  doctor  had  unburdened  himself  thoroughly' 
— she  laughed  again — 'he  simply  ran  out  of  the  room  and  down- 
stairs, knocking  over  Lady  de  Winton  at  the  door,  and  had 
driven  away  before  Jim  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  ring  the 
bell.' 

'Oh,  he  did  recover  under  this  treatment.' 

'He  got  his  wife  to  go  and  explain.  She  came  back  quite 
shaken,  I  assure  you,  and  said  he  had  told  her  he  had  people 
on  his  hands  who  wanted  to  get  well — he  couldn't  waste  his 
time  on  fools  (oh,  yes,  he  said  fools),  who  apparently  didn't 
want  to.' 

'And  was  that  what  cured  Jim ?  for  I  saw  him  at  the 

Saturday  Pop,  looking ' 

'He  wrote  a  very  handsome  apology,  my  dear — Jim!  Fancy! 
and  promised  to  do  everything  he  was  told.  They're  quite 
friends  now.  And  Jim's  well.' 

'What's  his  name?  I  can't  think  why  I  haven't  heard  of 
him.' 

'Oh,  you  haven't  been  seeing  people ' 

'I've  been  seeing  doctors  enough.' 

'They're  the  very  last  to  tell  you.  They  say  there  never  was 
anybody  so  hated  by  the  profession  as  this  new  man  is.  He 
isn't  really  so  new.  Everybody's  been  running  to  him  for  several 
years  now,  in  spite  of  the  anathemas  of  the  other  doctors.  They 
won't — lots  of  them— won't  ever  have  anything  to  do  with  you 
again  if  they  know  you've  consulted ' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  129 

'I  believe  I'll  go  to  him.' 

'Do,  dear.  He's  in  Cavendish  Square.  Number I'll 

look  it  out  for  you  this  minute.'  She  stood  up,  her  charming 
face  full  of  hope  and  cheer. 

'  Could  I  write  a  note  here  ? '  asked  her  guest. 

'For  an  appointment?  Yes,  of  course.'  Blanche  was  en- 
chanted to  find  her  friend  less  listless  than  she  had  seen  her  for 
long.  She  did  not  know  that  by  operation  of  a  survival  of 
the  old  optimism,  Katharine  regularly  went  through  this  phase 
when  a  new  doctor  was  in  question,  and  paid  for  it,  by  a 
deep  distrust  after  some  acquaintance  with  his  methods  and 
his  mind. 

'I'll  say  "to-morrow  if  possible,"'  she  announced,  drawing 
up  the  chair  to  the  little  writing-table,  and  choosing  a  pen,  while 
her  friend  lit  the  two  wax  tapers.  'And  I'll  put  in  a  telegraph 
form.  Enough  stamps?'  She  was  looking  in  a  box.  'What's 
the  creature's  name?' 

'Vincent— Garth  Vincent.    What's  the  matter?' 

'Oh,  I  used  to  know  Garth  Vincent.'  Katharine  stopped 
rummaging  for  stamps,  and  was  staring  at  the  candle-flame. 

'You  know  him?' 

'A  little.' 

'How  very  odd.' 

'Yes,  Lady  Peterborough  thought  it  "odd."' 

'Where  did  you  come  across  him?    Abroad?' 

'No.     Here  in  London.' 

'You  consulted  him?' 

'No.    He  consulted  me.    It  was  a  long  time  ago.' 

She  threw  down  the  pen  and  stood  up.  Blanche  took  hold 
of  her  arm. 

'  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  he  consulted  you  ? ' 

' said,  as  well  as  I  remember,  very  much  what  I  should 

have  to  say  to  him.  That  he  was  wretched — he'd  tried  every- 
thing, and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  there  wasn't  much  to 
expect  of  life  unless  I  could  .  .  .  give  him  hope.' 

'He  wanted  to  marry  you?' 

'That  was  what  I  gathered.' 

'And  you  .  .  .?' 

'I  didn't  give  him  "hope."  And  I've  no  reason  to  think  he 

9 


I3o  A  DARK  LANTERN 

could  give  it  to  me.     It's  too  much  for  one  human  being  to  ask 

of  another.' 

***** 

What  really  prevented  her  from  going  to  him  was  the 
sense  of  contrast.  She  had  never  seen  him  since  those  golden 
days. 

And  yet  over  and  over  again,  after  the  talk  with  Blanche, 
she  kept  saying  to  herself,  'She  is  right.  I  mustn't  give  up  try- 
ing to  get  well.  That's  like  my  father.  I  must  go  and  consult 
some  one  .  .  .  not  him,  of  course.  I  couldn't  possibly  go  to 
him.  And  so  Garth  Vincent  is  grown  great!'  She  would  look 
back  to  the  old  days  and  repeat:  'Oh  no,  not  him!  But  I  must 
see  someone.'  With  that  resolve  she  would  go  to  bed,  live  some- 
how through  the  broken  night,  dogged  by  humiliating  visions  of 
her  father,  and  by  that  galling  sense  of  how  alike  they  were,  and 
how  life  had  failed  them  both  alike,  utterly — utterly.  Strength 
to  meet  the  listlessness  of  morning  came  only  with  renewed  self- 
admonishing,  'Go  and  get  advice.  There  must  be  help  in  the 
world.  You've  only  to  ask  the  right  man.' 

But  once  again  upon  her  feet,  facing  the  practical  side  of  the 
problem  she  could  only  ask,  Who?  who? — And  from  the  answer 
of  the  moment,  turn  deliberately  away. 

After  an  interval  occupied  in  a  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean, 
Prince  Anton  began  to  write  again,  when  his  return  to  Berlin 
had  set  his  thoughts  running  in  old  grooves.  Katharine  re- 
turned the  letters  unopened.  With  the  third  she  enclosed  a  line: 
It  is  o]  no  use  to  'write  again.  But  he  did.  Not  only  wrote  but 
telegraphed.  These  last  communications,  she  would  open  una- 
ware, expecting  a  bidding  from  Blanche,  or  message  from  Bertie, 
back  again  from  South  Africa.  Instead  of  any  such  matter,  she 
would  find  herself  reading  words  above  Anton's  name,  that  made 
her  white  face  flame  with  scorn — scorn  for  herself  she  would 
have  said,  or  rather  for  that  blind  Katharine  who  was  dead. 
Under  the  nervous  strain,  under  the  lash  of  these  reminders  of 
all  she  longed  most  passionately  to  forget,  she  felt  the  little  strength 
she  still  had — going,  going.  'Help! '  she  kept  crying  in  her  heart. 
'Oh,  who  will  help  me!' 

A  morning  came  when  as  she  said  the  words  she  looked  in  the 
glass.  Stood  aghast  with  parted  lips. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  131 

'Natalie!  My  hat — grey  toque!  Thick  white  veil.  Quick! 
Long  cloak.  Tell  Howe  a  hansom.  Quick!' 

'Cavendish  Square!' — and  she  was  there  before  she  realized 
she  did  not  know  the  number.  She  hailed  a  passing  postman. 
'Oh  yes,'  he  turned  obligingly.  'Everybody  hereabouts  knows 
Dr.  Vincent's  number.  It  is  forty-two — the  house  where  the 
carriage  is  standing.' 

Another  victoria  drove  up  at  the  same  moment  as  Katharine's 
hansom.  Slowly  and  with  lumbering  dignity  a  great  closed 
carriage  made  way. 

'  Dr.  Vincent  is  in  ? '  Katharine  asked  of  the  man  who  opened 
the  door. 

'You  have  an  appointment.' 

'No.     Give  him  my  card.' 

'If  you  haven't  got  an  appointment ' 

'Just  take  him  the  card  please' — she  swept  past  the  dubious 
functionary,  in  the  wake  of  the  woman  who  had  arrived  in  the 
smart  victoria,  and  who  had  given  her  name  with  confidence. 
Not  yet  half -past  ten,  and  there  were  already  four  people  in  the 
big  dingy  dining-room,  that  with  London  doctors  does  half  of 
its  double  duty  as  a  waiting-room  for  patients.  It  occurred  to 
Katharine  now,  as  it  had  done  under  similar  circumstances  be- 
fore, to  wonder  how  the  man's  family  could  endure  to  eat  in  a 
place  consecrated  for  so  many  hours  of  every  day  to  the  use  of 
the  ailing  and  the  wretched.  Didn't  the  misery  that  unhappy 
mortals  brought  here,  didn't  it  vitiate  the  air?  Was  it  that  that 
blurred  the  very  window  panes,  as  the  light  exhalation  of  the 
dying  will  cloud  a  mirror  held  to  witness  to  the  breath?  Had 
not  suffering  and  disease  got  into  the  very  carpets  and  curtains  of 
such  places,  mixing  there  congenially  with  the  London  grime? 
In  any  of  these  dining-waiting-rooms  was  there  ever  laughter 
and  good  cheer? 

She  looked  about  her. 

The  one  male  present  held  up  the  one  morning  paper,  like  a 
screen,  between  himself  and  the  rest  of  the  world.  Three  women, 
with  listless  hands  turned  over  the  few  soiled  and  much-mauled 
volumes  that  dotted,  oasis-like,  the  yellow-brown  desert  of  the 
great  dining- table.  A  massive  bronze  clock  on  a  black  marble 
mantelpiece,  ticked  with  busy  solemnity.  As  the  time  went  on, 


13* 


A  DARK  LANTERN 


and  people  relinquished  their  books,  either  out  of  sheer  weari- 
ness, or  with  a  sudden  access  of  cheerful  alacrity,  on  being  sum- 
moned to  the  consulting  room,  Katharine  took  them  up  in  turn. 
A  bound  volume  of  Punch.  A  pamphlet  on  Diseases  0}  the  Eye. 
A  Guide  to  Cairo.  A  novel  by  a  never-heard-of-name,  and  a 
humorous  American  work  wearing  an  air  desperately  shabby, 
infinitely  sad.  Two  men  came  in.  One  went  and  sat  in  the 
farther  corner,  like  a  sick  dog,  who  would  slink  as  far  as  possible 
out  of  sight.  The  other  affected  a  jaunty  disregard  alike  of  the 
dismalness  of  the  errand  that  brought  people  here,  and  of  the 
environment  that  awaited  them.  He  walked  about  with  his 
stick  and  his  gloves  held  jauntily  behind  him,  and  looked  at  the 
pictures  as  if  he  were  at  a  Private  View  in  Bond  Street.  There 
were  only  three  pictures  and  they  were  old,  unless  that  little  one 
in  the  bad  light — Katharine  couldn't  make  it  out.  Everything 
here  was  old.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  place  was  that  of  a  house 
long  lived  in.  The  massive  buffet  was  early  Victorian,  the  carpet, 
curtains,  everything  was  heavy  and  dingy  and  old.  'If  I  didn't 
know  he  was  still  young,'  mused  Katharine,  'I  would  take  this 
to  be  the  house  of  an  octogenarian.' 

She  closed  the  tattered  volume  of  Punch,  and  stared  at  the 
four  glass  vases,  that  huddled  forlornly  together  in  the  middle 
of  the  table,  carrying  each  its  wisp  of  dejected-looking  flowers 
— a  few  drooping  anemones  supported  by  stiff  bits  of  ragged 
ivy.  That  anyone  could  believe  that  to  be  decoration!  she  mused. 
Anyone?  Why  it  must  be  his  wife  who  cherished  the  delusion. 
What  sort  of  a  woman  had  he  married  ?  A  slattern  at  all  events, 
she  decided  with  her  persistent  French  view  of  the  untidiness 
of  the  average  London  house,  the  low  standard  of  cleanliness 
and  good-housekeeping  prevailing  among  middle-class  London 
matrons.  She  remembered  vaguely  the  loud  young  woman 
who  had  flirted  so  obstreperously  with  Garth  Vincent  that  night 
at  Lady  Wicks'.  Was  it  she  he  had  married  ? 

The  jaunty  young  man  had  been  summoned.  The  sick  dog 
still  sat  in  the  corner.  An  old  lady  came  in  with  a  girl,  very 
pretty.  Was  she  ill,  too  ?  Had  that  man  Katharine  had  thought 
so  little  of  in  the  old  days,  had  he  hope  and  healing  for  each  one 
of  this  heterogeneous  gathering?  And  it's  like  this  every  day 
—people  sit  here  waiting  with  dread  in  their  hearts,  waiting  for 


A  DARK  LANTERN  133 

Garth  Vincent's  verdict.  Well,  it  was  a  queer  world.  She  got 
up  and  went  to  look  at  the  picture  in  the  shadow.  A  child.  A 
wistful,  tender  little  face.  If  it  was  like  the  mother,  then  he 
hadn't  married  the  horsey  young  woman. 

The  servant  reappeared  every  ten  minutes  or  so,  carrying  off 
some  one,  or  ushering  in  others,  who  came  and  sat  in  the  heavy 
leather-covered  chairs,  coughed,  looked  angrily  at  whoever  was 
reading  the  solitary  paper,  turned  over  the  shabby  books  and 
compared  their  watches  with  the  big  bronze  clock.  Katharine 
took  up  the  Standard  for  the  second  time,  thinking  as  she  did 
so,  that  there  was  perhaps  a  validity  that  she  would  before  have 
been  disposed  to  deny,  in  the  supposed  connection  between  your 
slattern  and  your  woman  'superior  to  the  frivolities  of  Fashion.' 
The  feminine  portion  of  this  establishment  apparently  did  not 
patronize  the  lady's  papers.  There  was  not  even  an  old  one 
about.  In  the  total  absence  of  such  literature,  she  discovered 
a  difference  between  this  and  other  waiting-rooms. 

When  Katharine  had  sat  there  an  hour,  she  went  into  the  hall 
and  said  to  the  man-servant:  'You  took  my  name  in?' 

'Yes,  madam.     He  said  he  would  see  you  if  you  could  wait.' 

'Well,  I  can't  stay  much  longer,'  she  said  decisively. 

But  she  went  back  and  sat  in  the  gloomy  room  till  nearly  one. 

'Will  you  come  now?'  said  the  man,  suddenly  appearing. 

She  followed  him  out  with  the  same  air  of  eager  haste  that  the 
others  had  worn.  The  servant  opened  the  consulting-room  door. 

'How  do  you  do?'  said  a  hard  voice;  with  the  abrupt  addi- 
tion: 'I'm  sorry  to  see  you,'  and  she  was  shaking  hands  with 
the  same  dark  man  she  had  known  in  those  different  days.  Al- 
though he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  light  and  his  face  in  heavy 
shadow,  she  was  conscious  of  a  change  in  it  that  was  not  the 
change  of  years.  'How  do  you  do,'  she  had  echoed  and  turned 
a  little  nervously  towards  the  chair  that  faced  his  own,  on  the 
other  side  of  a  writing-table.  'Is  this  where  the  victims  sit?' 
she  asked  with  an  affectation  of  lightness. 

'Sit  here,'  he  said  shortly,  and  she  went  to  the  sofa  near  the 
window. 

'Take  off  that  veil.' 

'Oh,  of  course.'  She  lifted  her  hand  to  unpin  it,  laughing 
a  little  embarrassed  laugh,  and  as  she  let  it  fall  she  had  an  in- 


134 


A  DARK  LANTERN 


stant  sense  of  comfort  in  the  better  sight  of  his  face.  If  there 
was  change  in  her,  so  incontestably  was  there  in  him.  But  his 
was  gain.  And  after  a  curious  fashion.  For  it  was  the  face  of 
a  man  who  had  fought  some  battle  fierce  and  bitter,  who  had 
been  hurt  in  the  battle,  and  who  carried  the  smouldering  memory 
of  that  conflict  and  that  hurt  for  ever  with  him.  What  has  been 
happening  through  these  years?  she  wondered.  But  the  specu- 
lation was  gone  in  a  flash,  for  he  was  discharging  questions  at 
her  with  the  precision  of  a  minute  gun,  and  before  she  had  been 
thirty  seconds  in  his  presence  she  felt  three  things.  First,  that 
she  need  not  have  minded  coming.  Second,  that  here  was  a 
man  who  gave  and  who  demanded  the  naked  truth.  Third, 
that  he  was  going  to  make  her  well. 

But  under  hard  conditions.  When  she  had  stood  the  fire  of 
his  interrogation: 

'You  must  go  into  a  Nursing  Home,'  he  said. 

'That's  impossible.' 

'Why?' 

'It's  impossible  because  I  want  to  get  well.  A  Nursing  Home 
would  not  do  me  any  good.'  As  he  frowned  the  more  and  moved 
with  impatience,  she  hastened  to  add  with  greater  show  of  feeling 
than  she  herself  realized:  'I — I've  seen  in  the  past  few  years  so 
much — my  father  has  been  ill — has  lived  in  such  places — and 
the  taste  left  in  my  mouth  is  too  bitter.' 

'Very  well.     Then  I'm  afraid  I  can't  help  you.' 

She  stared.     'Please  don't  say  that.' 

He  only  laughed  rather  disagreeably,  got  up  and  held  out  his 
hand: 

'Good-bye.' 

'Oh,  wait  a  moment.  You  see,  the  case'  (she  shuddered: 
'I'm  "a  case"  now') — 'the  case  is  a  little  different  from  most ' 

'They  all  say  that,'  he  interposed  impatiently. 

'But  here  it's  true.  You  can  make  a  Nursing  Home  of  Peter- 
borough House.' 

He  shook  his  head. 

'I'm  not  one  of  a  big  abounding  family.  There  is  a  quiet, 
airy  house,  full  of  well-trained  servants  and,  besides  me,  only 
a  frail  old  man.  He  will  agree  to  anything  that  will  help  me 
to  get  well.  I  can  be  isolated — absolutely  isolated  there.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  135 

'It  never  succeeds,'  he  said,  but  she  thought  he  was  consider- 
ing the  proposition. 

'We  can  make  it  succeed.  You  can  impose  any  conditions 
you  please.  I  pledge  myself  they  shall  be  carried  out.' 

'There's  a  whole  system,  in  the  right  kind  of  Nursing  Home, 
that  can't  be  transplanted  at  a  moment's  notice — if  at  all.' 

'You  can't  suggest  anything  so  difficult,  but  we  will  do  it,'  she 
persisted.  Then  as  he  stood  with  his  head  bent,  brows  drawn 
close  together,  silent :  '  If  you  refuse  to  help  me  in  my  own  home ' 
— he  looked  up  suddenly — 'then  there  is  left  only  Good-bye.' 
Not  conscious  of  the  tears  that  stood  in  her  eyes,  she  held  out 
her  hand.  He  kept  his  right  one  in  his  pocket. 

'It's  against  my  rule.' 

'You'll  do  it  this  once?' 

'I'll  make  the  trial,  but  I've  very  little  faith.' 

'You'll  have  more  as  we  go  on.    Now,  what  am  I  to  do?' 

'  Go  home  and  go  to  bed.' 

'Yes,'  she  nodded,  waiting. 

'Leave  word  that  you  won't  see  any  visitors — not  any.1  He 
glared  at  her,  suddenly  furious,  as  if  she  had  demurred. 

'No — no — no  one.' 

'No  letters,  no  telegrams,  no  messages,  no  daily  papers,  no 
communication  of  any  sort  for  six  weeks.' 

'For  six  weeks,'  she  repeated  like  a  child  learning  a  lesson. 

'  I'll  send  you  a  day  nurse  and  night  nurse,  and  come  and  see 
you  to-morrow.' 

'Am  I  so  ill?' 

'Yes,  you're  rather  ill,'  he  said  sharply.  'You've  had  a  shock 
of  some  sort,  haven't  you  ? ' 

'Oh — a '  While  she  stammered  with  surprise  at  his 

clairvoyance,  he  had  put  out  his  hand. 

'Good-bye.' 

And  she  was  in  the  street. 


CHAPTER  H 

NOT  yet  daring  to  tell  Lord  Peterborough  what  she  had  let  her- 
self in  for,  she  secretly  began  her  preparations — making  them 
with  a  kind  of  excited  deliberation,  and  the  sense  of  pain  that 
attends  all  such  'letting  go.' 

For  those  two  hours  that  she  worked  at  her  writing  table,  and 
at  a  certain  locked  bureau,  she  had  from  time  to  time  the  sudden 
sharp  envisagement  of  life  that  visits  those  who  drown,  or  those 
falling  down  to  death  from  some  great  height.  As  she  turned 
over  notes,  poems,  photographs,  she  read  a  commentary  on  the 
wasted  years  not  visibly  set  down — saw  panoramic  pictures  of 
herself  limned  more  vividly  than  by  the  sun;  and  all  connected, 
finely  related,  effect  following  hard  on  patent  cause.  There  was 
the  little  child  in  Paris,  the  school-girl  at  Auteuil,  learning  odds 
and  ends  of  everything  but  discipline;  the  debutante  bending 
before  the  old  Queen  at  Buckingham  Palace  and  raising  her 
eyes  to  meet  the  smiling  gaze  of  the  man  in  the  blue  uniform; 
the  disillusionment  of  the  years;  her  father's  downfall;  the  sense 
of  ruin  and  helplessness,  and  then  that  searching  half-hour  in 
Cavendish  Square  before  the  Judge  who  had  sentenced  her  to 
prison.  It  was  as  if,  until  to-day,  she  had  wrought  at  life  like  the 
tapestry-makers,  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  fabric.  And  now  on 
a  sudden  (since  that  thirty  minutes  under  Garth  Vincent's  hands) 
had  been  brought  round  in  front  of  the  great  frame  and  seen 
the  pattern  fairly.  The  sight  had  made  him,  whose  little  con- 
cern it  was,  uncommon  grave.  He  had  asked  her  questions 
that  to  remember  took  her  breath,  yet  that  on  the  instant  seemed 
as  inevitable  as  thunder  on  the  heels  of  lightning — questions  that 
rent  aside  the  trappings  of  existence  and  left  bare  the  skeleton 
of  things.  He  had  not  tried  to  comfort  her,  and  yet  strangely  he 

136 


A  DARK  LANTERN  137 

had  done  just  that.  How,  she  could  not  then  have  told.  For 
although  she  believed  he  would  help  her,  he  had  not  spared  the 
truth.  And  the  truth  was  grave. 

In  any  case  six  weeks  was  a  long  time.  One  never  knew. 
She  burnt  a  great  many  letters,  and  those  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  burn,  she  sealed  and  inscribed  '  in  the  event .  .  . ' 

Then  she  went  downstairs  to  see  if  Lord  Peterborough  were 
back  from  his  drive,  and  if  he  were,  to  make  a  clean  breast.  It 
was  nearly  four  o'clock.  She  pushed  open  the  library  door  softly, 
for  he  often  dropped  asleep  after  an  outing. 

'Well  here  you  are  at  last,'  he  said,  paraphrasing  'look  how  you 
neglect  me!' 

'I  wasn't  sure  if  you  were  back.' 

'I  didn't  go.'  He  brandished  a  long  ivory  paper-knife  over 
a  new  book. 

'Oh!    It  has  been  such  a  nice  afternoon.' 

He  said  nothing,  but  went  on  sawing  open  the  thick  leaves 
with  a  hoarse  grating  sound. 

'I  hope  it  wasn't  because  I  didn't  come.' 

'Oh,  it  didn't  matter.' 

'You  wouldn't  never  take  drives,  would  you — if  I  were  not 
here  ? ' 

'Eh?'  He  looked  up  sharply  under  his  bushy  white  eyebrows. 
'Where  are  you  going?' 

'Nowhere.  I'm  going  to  stay  here — but  I  shan't  be  able  to 
drive' — a  change  in  the  whimsical  old  face  made  her  add  hur- 
riedly, 'not  for  the  next — little  while.' 

'Why  not?'  He  laid  the  ivory  knife  in  the  last  cut  page  and 
slowly  closed  the  book,  keeping  his  dim  old  eyes  fastened  on  her 
face. 

'It  seems  my  nerves  are  shattered.'  They  exchanged  looks 
that  said  Henry  Dereham,  and  the  old  man  frowned.  'I  am 
advised  to  keep  very  quiet — for  a  little.' 

'Humph,  the  last  man  said  Exercise.     Change.' 

'I  know.  It  didn't  do.  I'm  going  to  give  the  Rest  Cure  a 
chance.' 

His  dulled  hearing  caught  the  blurred  syllables  together.  '  Give 
what  Rescuer  a  chance  ?  Who  is  he  ? ' 

'Dr.  Garth  Vincent.' 


i38  A  DARK  LANTERN 

' — fellow  calls  himself  a  Rescuer?' 

'Oh,  he  couldn't  exactly  be  called  a  Rest  Cure  in  himself.  In 
fact  he's  as  far  removed  from  being  soothing  as  anyone  I  know, 
but ' 

'Oh  well,  if  he  rescues  you' and  he  laughed. 

Katharine  joined  him,  relieved  that  he  was  taking  the  news  so 
philosophically.  'But  while  he's  "rescuing"  or  Rest- Curing  me, 
you'll  have  a  lot  of  responsibility  with  my  god-father,'  she 
said,  leaning  over  the  back  of  his  chair.  'It  would  interfere 
with  the  Rescue  most  dreadfully,  if  I  didn't  have  a  perfectly 
quiet  mind.' 

Howe  came  in  with  letters  lying  in  two  neat  piles  on  a  tray. 
The  correspondence  was  inspected  in  silence  while  the  man 
mended  the  fire.  Katharine  glanced  hurriedly  at  an  urgent 
request  from  a  high  quarter  for  her  to  join  a  Woman's  Colonial 
Emigration  Committee;  a  scolding  for  disappointing  some  people 
who  had  expected  her  the  evening  before;  a  wedding  invitation; 
two  dinners.  Then  she  settled  to  read  the  letter  she  had  turned 
on  its  face  upon  first  catching  sight  of  the  superscription.  It  was 
from  her  father.  A  maudlin  appeal  for  her  to  get  him  back  to 
England.  She  dropped  the  untidy  sheets  on  her  lap  and  looked 
down  on  them  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

'  What  is  it,  child  ? '  inquired  the  gentle  voice  of  the  old  man  by 
the  fire. 

'Oh  nothing,'  she  answered,  as  Howe  returned  with  a  tele- 
gram. 'After  this,  you'll  just  put  all  letters  and  things  aside 
till  I'm  stronger.  This  for  me,  too?'  She  opened  the  despatch 
and  read: 

'//  you  return  my  letters  unopened  I  must  come  to  London  though 
M.  is  dangerously  ill. — ANTON.' 

Margaretha  dangerously  ill!     'Give  me  a  foreign  form.' 
She  wrote:  'Await  my  letter.    Important  you  should  not  com- 
municate be/ore  hearing  from  me. — K.' 

— and  Howe,  I'm  not  at  home.     Will  you  see  people?' 
'No.     Oh,  Lady  Algernon  of  course,'  Lord  Peterborough  added 
suddenly  with  a  harassed  look.     He  disliked  his  sister  rather  more 
than  less  as  time  went  on — but  the  tradition  of  family  affection 


A  DARK  LANTERN  139 

was  more  potent  with  him  even  than  his  love  of  peace.  Poor  dear, 
thought  Katharine,  left  to  Lady  Algernon's  tender  mercies! 

'Won't  you  have  some  nice  person  to  stay  these  weeks  I  can't 
be  with  you?' 

'  Can't  be  with  me  ?    Bless  my  soul !  who  will  you  be  with  then  ? ' 

'The  doctor  wanted  me  to  go  to  a  Nursing  Home — 

'Stuff  and  nonsense!  I  never  heard  of  such  rank  absurdity. 
Nursing  Homes  are  for  people  who  can't  have  proper  attention  in 
their  own  houses.' 

'That  isn't  quite  his  view.' 

'But  it's  yours!'  he  announced,  yet  with  open  anxiety. 

'Yes,  dear.     It's  mine.' 

'I  should  think  so  indeed.' 

'I  told  him  there  was  nothing,  just  nothing,  that  couldn't  be 
done  for  me  here.'  The  old  man  nodded  briskly.  'He  said  that 
people  always  said  that,  and  then  raised  objections.  His  orders 
were  not  carried  out,  and  then  when  people  didn't  get  well  they 
blamed  him.' 

'We  won't  give  the  fellow  a  loophole  to  crawl  through.  What 
does  he  want?' 

' wants  me  to  stay  in  my  own  rooms  with  a  day-nurse  and 

a  night-nurse.' 

'Two  nurses!'    His  voice  fell.    'Are  you  as  ill  as  that,  my  child?' 

'No,  that's  the  ridiculous  part  of  it,'  she  said  lightly.  'But  he 
says  after  all  this  ineffectual  "patching"  we  must  do  the  thing 
thoroughly  and  have  done  with  it.' 

'What  does  he  mean  by  thoroughly?' 

'Well  to  diet — and  take  a  Rest  Cure — receive  no  letters  or 
messages,  read  no  papers,  see  nobody,  be  "isolated"  as  he  calls 
it  for — a  few  weeks,'  she  did  not  dare  say  six,  as  she  watched  the 
white  brows  pull  together. 

'  Does  the  fellow  want  to  relieve  you  of  my  exhilarating  society  ? ' 

'I'm  not  to  see  any  face  I  know,  not  even  Natalie's.' 

'  God  bless  my  soul ! '  He  jumped  up,  his  withered  old  cheeks 
suddenly  flushed.  'I  never  heard  such  nonsense — shut  a  young 
woman  away  from  all  her  best  friends,  from  even  her  old  servants! 
— How  did  you  hear  of  this  man?'  Before  she  could  answer 
Howe  had  opened  the  door  and  announced: 

'Lady  Algernon  Caxton — Mr.  Amherst.' 


I4o  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Look  here,  Adeline,'  in  the  agitation  of  the  moment  Lord 
Peterborough  instinctively  set  aside  private  differences  and  sum- 
moned a  family  council:  'what  do  you  think  of  this  new-fangled 
notion  of  a  Rest  Cure?  Some  quack's  been  telling  Katharine 
she  won't  get  well  if  she  doesn't  go  to  bed,  and  bar  the  door 
against  every  human  creature  who  knows  or  cares  about  her. 
What  do  you  think  of  that  ? ' 

'Preposterous!'  boomed  Lady  Algernon  in  subterranean  tones. 
'What  quack?' 

'Oh,  some  new  man — what's  his  name?' 

'Nothing  very  new  in  the  prescription,'  said  Bertie,  coming  to 
Katharine's  rescue.  'I  know  people  who've  tried  it.' 

'Who  recommended  the  fellow?'  Lord  Peterborough  asked 
Katharine,  as  Bertie  released  her  hand. 

'Blanche  Bruton  told  me  about  him.  Garth  Vincent  is  his 
name.' 

'Oh,  I  know  him,'  said  Bertie;  'clever  chap.' 

'Yes,  Blanche  said  he  cured  Jim  Henley,  and — oh,  lots  of 
people  she  knows.' 

'Vincent's  a  first-rate  man,'  said  Bertie  with  decision;  but  he 
looked  at  Katharine  in  a  way  that  indicated  'There's  more  to  be 
said  than  that;  however,  we'll  leave  well  enough  alone.' 

'One  thing  I  must  insist  upon,'  said  Lord  Peterborough,  'and 
that  is  your  seeing  McClintoch  first.' 

'What  for?'  asked  Katharine  in  dismay. 

'Why,  to  know  what  he  thinks  of  this  crazy  plan.' 

'But  I  don't  want  to  consult  Sir  Lawrence  any  more.' 

'Why  not?  He's  looked  after  the  health  of  the  family  for 
five-and-twenty  years,  and  understands  your  constitution  better 
than  anyone  in  the  world.'  Katharine's  harassed  look  rested  on 
Bertie  Amherst  as  the  butler  came  in,  and  said  in  an  undertone, 
that  a  young  person  was  asking  for  Miss  Dereham. 

'I  told  you  I  was  not  at  home.' 

'Yes,  I  said  she'd  better  come  another  day — but  she  said  she 
couldn't  and  she  was  sure  you  would  see  her.' 

'What  impertinence!'  said  Lady  Algernon,  ready  as  usual  to 
manage  other  people's  affairs.  'Who  is  it?' 

'She  says  she's  a  nurse,  your  ladyship,'  remarked  Howe  with 
his  most  detached  air. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  141 

'Oh,'  laughed  Katharine.  'Of  course!  it's  all  right.  Tell 
Natalie.' 

'Already!'  ejaculated  Lord  Peterborough.  'She  must  be  sent 
away,  Katharine,  till  we  can  get  another  opinion.  I  don't  believe 
for  a  moment  that  McClintoch ' 

'It  won't  do  to  ask  Sir  Lawrence  what  he  thinks  of  Vincent,' 
said  Bertie. 

'Why  not? — if  Vincent's  all  right?'  demanded  his  uncle. 

'Oh,  it  would  never  do.  If  Vincent  thought  anyone  consulted 
him,  and  then  went  to  get  another  man's  opinion ' 

'Well?' 

'Why  he  wouldn't  touch  the  case.' 

'You  mean  to  say  he  would  jib  at  Katharine's  talking  over 
such  a  step  with  a  man  who's  known  her  all  her  life!' 

Bertie  shook  his  head  and  laughed.  'Vincent's  a  wonderful 
clever  chap,  but  he's  got  the  devil's  own  temper.  He'd  say  if 
Katharine  wants  to  consult  McClintoch,  let  her  stay  with  Mc- 
Clintoch. Why  bother  Vincent  at  all,  if  you  don't  believe  in 
him?' 

Katharine's  grateful  eyes  assured  Bertie  he  was  on  the  right 
track. 

'Why  indeed!'   said   Lady   Algernon   in   her   deepest   tones. 

'Why  should  anyone  go  to  an  upstart  doctor  when  one  can 
have ' 

'Young,  too,  ain't  he?'  interrupted  Lord  Peterborough. 

'Young,  and  cocksure,  and  quite  odious,'  said  Lady  Algernoa 
'Sets  at  defiance  all  his  superiors  in  the  entire  medical  profession 
— no  respect  for  anybody,'  she  put  up  her  nose.  'I  wouldn't 
permit  him  to  cross  my  threshold.  Such  manners!  A  perfect 
boor ' 

'  I  never  said  he  was  an  embodiment  of  all  the  graces,'  observed 
Bertie. 

'I  didn't  know  it  mattered  in  a  doctor,'  said  Katharine. 

'No,  no,'  answered  Lord  Peterborough  reasonably.  'I  won't 
say  his  manners  matter.  If  the  fellow  knows  his  business,  that's 
all  Katharine  wants  of  him.' 

'Exactly,'  said  Katharine. 

'All  the  same,  I  saw  him  at  Sanford  House  last  night,'  said 
Bertie. 


i42  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Lady  Algernon's  nose  went  up  yet  higher.  'Yes,'  she  said, 
'you  meet  them  sometimes  in  most  unexpected  places,  in  these 
degenerate  days.' 

'Them?'  inquired  Katharine,  with  a  moment's  stirring  of  the 
curiosity  of  the  waiting  room:  what  kind  of  woman  had  he 
married  ? 

'Yes,'  Lady  Algernon  went  on,  'in  my  young  days  medical 
men  were  kept  in  their  proper  places.  Now,  the  person  who  has 
been  prescribing  for  your  liver  in  the  morning,  may  be  peering 
into  your  plate  at  the  dinner  table.  Disgusting!' 

'Poor  things,  are  they  never  to  dine  out?' 

'Let  them  go  among  their  own  kind,  as  men-dressmakers  and 
such  people  do.  It  is  revolting  to  think  of  mixing  in  general 
society  with  a  man  you've  had  to  consult  about ' 

'I  can  see,'  Katharine  quietly  interrupted,  'that  it  may  revolt 
them — if  they  remember.' 

'Going  about  as  they  do,'  the  old  woman  went  on  imper- 
turbably,  '  there's  no  telling  what  mayn't  happen.  Some  silly  girl 
with  new  fangled  notions,  might  even  think  she  could  marry  a 
doctor  just  as  though  he  were  in  the  army  or  the  church.' 

The  beautiful  guardsman  laughed.  'There's  something  in 
doctorin'  that  fails  to  appeal  to  the  aesthetic  sense  of  most  women.' 
He  looked  at  Katharine. 

She  smiled  assent.     'Yes,  it's  not  a  romantic  profession.' 

'I  should  like  to  return  to  the  times,'  began  Lady  Algernon, 
'when  the  professions  of  doctor  and  barber  were  combined  in 
one ' 

'I  wouldn't,'  said  Bertie  as  the  tea  came  in;  'you  probably 
got  hair  oil  now  and  then,  as  a  pick-me-up.'  He  kept  his  seat 
by  Katharine  on  the  sofa.  In  an  undertone:  'You'll  write  to 
me,  won't  you?' 

'Write  to  you?' 

'Yes,  while  you're  lying  up  there  with  nothing  to  do.' 

'I  musn't  communicate  with  anybody.' 

'Oh,  that's  rot.  You  can  easily  do  it  without  getting  into 
trouble  with  Vincent.' 

She  shook  her  head. 

'It  isn't  as  if  you  were  in  that  beastly  Home  of  his.  They 
watch  you  there  like  a  cat  watches  a  mouse.  Dawlish  was  eight 


A  DARK  LANTERN  143 

weeks  in  the  place.  He  told  me  if  you  sent  a  postcard ' 

Bertie  made  a  little  gesture  of  the  devil  to  pay. 

'The  nurse  discharged,  I  suppose.' 

' and  the  patient.  Fact.  But  here  you  can  do  the  Cure 

in  moderation.  Write  to  me,  Kitty.' 

She  shook  her  head. 

'It's  to  be  exactly  as  if  I  were  in  the  Nursing  Home.  I've 
promised  him.  It's  only  on  that  condition  he  undertakes  my 
case.' 

Bertie  sighed.  'Come  with  me  to  the  new  Savoy  opera  to- 
night then,  for  a  final  fling.' 

'No,  I  said  I'd  go  to  bed — and  I'm  going.'  She  rose.  But 
Lady  Algernon  was  taking  leave,  so  Katharine  waited  for  a  last 
word  with  Lord  Peterborough  before  disappearing  from  the 
general  view.  When  they  were  alone: 

'So,'  he  said,  'you've  determined  to  follow  this  man's  advice?' 

'I  believe  it's  good  advice.' 

'Oh,  you  believe  in  the  fellow,  do  you?' 

'Yes,  I  think  he  will  cure  me' — she  spared  the  old  man  'if 
anybody  can.' 

'Well,  come,  that's  something.  You  haven't  usually  felt  like 
that.' 

'No.' 

'  I  don't  like  to  think  of  my  girl  being  given  over  to  the  mercies 
of  an  uncouth  creature Adeline's  been  telling  me ' 

'What  does  it  matter?'  Katharine  interrupted  with  a  weary 
smile.  'I  can  quite  imagine  he  doesn't  get  on  with  people  like 
Lady  Algernon.  And  it's  true  he  did  rather  buffet  me  about. 
But  all  the  same  he  was  rather  kind  to  me,  too' — she  stared  in 
front  of  her — 'in  the  sort  of  way  that  the  rain  and  the  wind  are 
kind.'  She  looked  up  after  a  silence  to  find  Lord  Peterborough 
sitting  with  head  sunk  between  his  shoulders  and  eyes  lowered.  It 
occurred  to  her  that  he  looked  unusually  old  and  lonely,  and  yet 
she  must  leave  him  for  all  those  weeks! 

She  went  over  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

'Please  help  me  to  do  this  Cure.  Vincent's  right.  It's  what  I 
need.  After  all,  it's  no  more  than  many  Roman  Catholic  women 
do  from  time  to  time.' 

'Take  Rest  Cures?' 


144  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Yes,  kind  of.  They  turn  their  backs  on  the  world,  and  go  for 
a  few  weeks  into  a  Religious  Retreat — just  for  the  refreshment  of 
their  souls.'  She  spoke  lightly,  and  smiled  down  at  him. 

'Beastly  bore  for  you.' 

'Well,  I  don't  know.  I  am  rather  tired,  and  I  shall  be  able 
to  lie  in  bed  without  reproach.' 

'  Did  I  ever  reproach  you  ? ' 

'Yes — you  don't  go  to  drive  unless  I  come,  and  then  I'm 
reproached.' 

'Oh,  I  mean  to  drive  when  the  weather  is  decent.' 

'Yes.  And  I'll  lie  in  bed  and  nobody  will  dare  say  I'm  a 
sluggard.  I'll  do  only  the  things  I  like,  and  be  approved  for  it. 
Just  rest  and  scribble  verses  now  and  then,  and  read,  read, 
read.  Peer,  let's  make  a  list!  There  are  long  delightful  books 
that  I've  been  promising  myself  to  read  for  years  and  years. 
There's  never  been  time  before.  You'll  get  them  for  me,  won't 
you?' 

He  felt  for  the  pencil  on  his  watch-chain — making  a  list  of 
delightful  books  was  a  thing  he  was  good  at. 

'Do  you  know  what  I'd  do  if  I  had  to  take  a  Rest  Cure?' 
he  said. 

'No,  what?' 

'I'd  learn  a  new  language.' 

'  The  very  thing !  /'//  learn  a  new  language.  What  shall  it  be  ? ' 
she  said  with  something  like  enthusiasm. 

'You  say  you  want  to  refresh  your  soul — and  we  know,  that 
"Wer  eine  neue  Sprache  lernt,  bekommt  eine  neue  Seele" — 
that  might  be  even  better  than  refreshing  the  old  one.' 

Katharine  had  a  sudden  vision  of  Vincent's  forbidding  face 
as  he  said,  'I  don't  mean  any  half  and  half  business — I  mean 
really  resting.'  But  she  played  with  the  question  to  amuse  the 
old  man,  declining  Russian  as  too  hard,  and  deciding  upon  Dutch 
'because  of  South  Africa.' 

But  in  belittling  the  situation  to  Peer  she  had  come  to  see 
it  differently  herself.  By  the  time  she  had  given  her  final  direc- 
tions to  Howe  and  the  housekeeper,  she  had  begun  to  look 
forward  with  a  quite  unexpected  equanimity  to  this  time  of  seclu- 
sion. She  ran  back  into  the  library  with  a  step  so  light  that  Lord 
Peterborough  looked  up  in  surprise.  '  Why,  you're  better  already. ' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  145 

Then,  as,  smiling  she  dropped  on  the  footstool  in  front  of  him: 
'I  wonder  if  you  really  need  this  Cure '  He  spoke  wistfully. 

'Yes,  I  need  it  dear,  but  it  will  be  a  success  only  if  you  are 
very  kind.' 

'What  can  I  do,  child?' 

She  laid  her  head  on  his  knee,  and  he  put  a  thin  hand  on  her 
hair,  repeating  gently,  'What  can  I  do?'  Sudden  tears  came  into 
her  eyes. 

'  Be  as  good  to  my  god- father  as  you've  been  to  me  ever  since 
I  was  a  little  little  child.'  She  was  on  her  knees  with  arms  about 
him.  'Will  you  drive  every  fine  day,  and  do  all  the  dull  and 
healthy  things?'  They  tried  to  laugh. 

'Yes,'  he  said.  'Now  go  away  and  don't  show  your  face  here 
again  till  you're  quite  well.'  She  promised,  still  laughing,  dried 
her  eyes,  and  got  as  far  as  the  door.  Turned,  and  with  a  little 
difficulty  finding  her  voice : 

'I  expect  you  think  I've  taken  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course — but 
I  haven't.' 

'Taken  what  as  a  matter  of  course?' 

'All  that  you've  done  for  me.' 

'  Oh  that '  with  sudden  energy  he  began  to  cut  the  remain- 
ing leaves  of  his  book.  But  Katharine  came  back,  quite  calm 
again,  and  stood  by  his  chair.  'I'd  like  you  to  let  me  say  just 
once  that  I  am  grateful.' 

'As  to  that,  you've  given  as  much  as  you've  taken.  What 
should  I  do  alone?' 

'No,  no,  you  could  get  on  without  me  far  better  than  I  could 
without  you.  Why,  you're  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  has 
never  failed  me.' 

'I  have  been  very  fond  of  you,  my  dear.' 

But  Katharine  did  not  dream  how  glad  she  was  to  be  that  she 
had  not  let  slip  the  occasion  to  make  profession  of  faith. 

As  she  went  upstairs  a  double  knock  shook  the  heavy  outer 
door.  The  sound  affected  her  as  it  might  the  dweller  in  some 
impregnable  fortress,  who  hears  an  impotent  enemy  battering  at 
the  gates.  Freedom  from  the  tyranny  of  the  London  hourly 
post,  that  of  itself  was  much.  No  more  notes  to  answer,  no 
attack  upon  the  quivering  nerves  by  telegraph  boys  with  messages 
from  Berlin — no  heart-breaking  letters  from  her  father.  No 


i46  A  DARK  LANTERN 

need  to  smile  and  look  pleasant.  No  one  to  entertain.  'Hah — 

h !'  she  drew  a  long  breath  as  she  stood  on  the  topmost  step. 

She  had  left  Care  below. 

The  nurse  had  been  taken  to  her  room.  She  must  have  heard 
Katharine  come  upstairs,  for  without  delay  she  presented  her- 
self. Tall,  gaunt — not  young,  a  perfunctory  smile,  a  cold  nose, 
set  off  by  the  white  aureole  of  her  frilled  cap,  which  gave  the 
impression  of  being  tied  with  excruciating  tightness  under  her 
long  chin.  The  starched  muslin  of  the  strings  seemed  to  embed 
itself  in  the  loose  skin  of  the  neck,  and  after  doing  its  worst  by 
way  of  discomfort  there,  launched  out  briskly  in  the  wings  of  a 
stiff-tied  bow.  The  small  constricting  cuffs  looked  ready  to  cut 
off  each  purple  hand. 

'I  am  Nurse  Phillips,'  she  said. 

Katharine  responded  and  sent  her  away  for  tea.  Twenty 
minutes  later,  Nurse  Phillips  re-entered  the  room  with  a  pro- 
prietary air,  as  one  now  fully  installed.  Katharine  was  in  dress- 
ing-gown by  the  fire,  writing  on  a  portfolio  held  upon  her  knee. 
The  most  difficult  task  she  had  shirked  till  the  last,  this  final 
letter  to  Anton,  explaining  the  exigencies  of  the  Rest  Cure,  and 
that  if  he  still  went  on  sending  letters  or  telegrams,  they  would 
either  lie  untouched,  or  be  opened  (in  the  event  of  anything 
happening  to  her)  by  other  hands.  That  would  give  him 
pause. 

'Shall  you  soon  be  ready  to  go  to  bed?'  inquired  the  nurse 
hovering  about. 

'Yes.' 

'Can  you  tell  me  where  the  scales  are?' 

'What  scales?' 

'The  scales  to  weigh  you.' 

Katharine  reflected.  'I  believe  there  used  to  be  scales  in  Lady 
Peterborough's  bath-room.  We  can  go  there  if  you  like.' 

'Could  the  scales  be  brought  in  here?' 

'Here?' 

'Yes.     Dr.  Vincent  won't  want  you  to  go  out  of  this  room.' 

'Oh,  won't  he?'  smiled  Katharine. 

'No,'  answered  the  nurse  gravely.  Then  as  Katharine  said 
no  more:  'Dr.  Vincent  is  very  particular  about  having  the  weight 
taken  every  night  before  dinner.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  147 

Life  in  one  room!  That  will  seem  odd.  Katharine  reached 
out  her  hand  and  rang  the  bell. 

'Do  you  mind  letting  me  know  what  you  want?' 

'Oh,  I'll  see  a  servant  about ' 

'Could  I  say  what  it  is?'  asked  the  woman. 

Then  as  Katharine  stared  at  her,  she  added,  'If  you'd  rather 
not,  of  course,  for  to-night  it  won't  matter.' 

' for  to-night?' 

'When  the  Cure  begins,  you  know — from  to-morrow — Dr. 
Vincent  won't  want  anyone  to  come  in  after  the  room  is  done  in 
the  morning,  except  the  nurse.' 

' and  himself,  I  suppose.'     She  smiled  a  little  impatiently. 

'Oh,  yes — himself.' 

A  knock  at  the  door.  'Just  give  the  order  about  the  scales, 
will  you?'  As  the  nurse  disappeared,  Katharine  heard  outside 
Natalie's  voice,  a  little  excited  and  hushed  down — Natalie,  never 
before  debarred  that  door!  What  a  queer  experience  it  was  to 
be!  She  went  on  with  that  last  letter  to  Anton. 

'So,  you  see,  for  six  weeks' — she  paused  with  a  renewed  sense 
of  relief  at  being,  for  that  much  time  at  least,  beyond  the  reach 
of  his  troubling  power.  '  For  six  weeks ! '  she  repeated  to  herself, 
staring  into  the  fire — 'nobody  and  nothing  of  all  this  tangled 
wretchedness  can  reach  me.  For  two  and  forty  days  I  shall  be 
safe.'  She  looked  round  her  prison  smiling.  Why,  it  will  be 
next  door  to  being  dead.  I'll  have  such  peace  here  as  I  thought 
only  graves  could  give. 

And  she  re-read  the  last  words  of  her  letter:  'So  you  see,  for 
six  weeks' — and  wrote  on — '  "I  am  as  one  disembodied,  triumphant, 
dead." — KATHARINE.' 


CHAPTER  in 

VAGUELY,  as  she  lay  there  all  that  first  morning,  she  expected 
to  hear  Vincent  announced — forgetting,  so  little  had  the  con- 
ditions of  his  life  come  home  to  her,  that  he  would  not  be  likely 
to  come  before  his  office  hours,  and  would  scarcely  therefore 
reach  her  till  the  latter  part  of  the  day.  Idly  she  cut  the  leaves 
of  Jusserand's  'Roman  d'un  Roi  d'£cosse,'  but  she  felt  too  let 
down,  even  to  begin  that  work,  although  the  nurse  gave  her  a 
momentary  fillip  by  saying,  'Is  he  going  to  let  you  read?' 

'Oh,  yes.' 

'Did  he  tell  you  so?' 

'Yes,  certainly.'  Then  presently:  'Don't  most  people  read 
who  take  a  Rest  Cure?' 

'He  sometimes  lets  them.  It  depends.'  After  a  moment 
spent  in  poking  the  fire:  'I  don't  know  so  much  about  cases  in 
private  houses.  It  is  very  seldom  he  consents  to  take  a  real 
Rest  Cure  patient  that  is  not  nursed  at  the  Home.' 

'Oh?'  and  although  she  knew  quite  well,  'Why  is  that?'  she 
said. 

'Because, — well  you  see,  at  the  Home  everything  goes  by  rule, 
it's  all  like  clockwork.  He  thinks  that  people,  especially  women, 
haven't  enough  sense  of  discipline  to  carry  out  orders  for  them- 
selves.' 

'I  suppose  he  doesn't  imagine  everybody  to  be  the  same  in 
that.' 

'People  are  helped,  he  thinks,  by  being  hedged  in  by  the 
routine  of  a  house  where  everything  is  organized  for  the  purpose 
of ' 

Katharine  interrupted,  recoiling  from  the  thought  of  her 
father:  'In  cases  where  people  don't  need  to  be  hedged  in,  and 

148 


A  DARK  LANTERN  149 

have  the  will  to  carry  out  reasonable  instructions,  it  is  surely 
better  to  let  them  exercise  it.' 

'Oh,  if  they  have  it,'  was  the  unconvinced  reply. 

'Even  in  the  Nursing  Home,  I  suppose  people  sometimes  rebel 
against  the  regulations.' 

'It's  no  use  to  rebel  there.' 

Katharine  remembered  the  soothing  letter  she  had  written  to 
her  father  while  the  nurse  was  at  breakfast.  She  had  not  pur- 
posely concealed  it,  but  it  lay  out  of  sight  between  the  leaves  of 
the  'Roi  d'Ecosse'  awaiting  its  stamp.  She  recalled  vaguely 
something  Bertie  had  said.  'For  instance,'  she  pursued,  'if 
people  at  the  Home  write  letters ?' 

'They  aren't  posted.'  Then  while  Katharine  lay  digesting 
the  information,  the  nurse  added:  'And  if  Dr.  Vincent  hears  of 

their  having  written '  she  paused  to  dust  the  little  Dresden 

figure. 

'Well?' 

'Oh,  at  the  Home,  he  just  comes  in,  and  tells  the  patient  to 
pack  up  and  go  away.' 

'Hm!  and  do  they  do  it?' 

'No,  they  want  to  get  well,  and  they  know  they  can't  without 
his  help.  So  they  give  in  and  promise  not  to  break  his  rules 
again.'  As  Katharine  made  no  comment  upon  this,  the  nurse 
added:  'Dr.  Vincent  told  Sir  William  Blake'  (she  brought  out 
the  name  of  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  with  less  effect  of 
importance  than  she  managed  to  convey  in  saying  '  Dr.  Vincent') 
'that  he  wouldn't  waste  his  time  on  anybody,  no  matter  who  it 
was,  who  didn't  give  the  treatment  a  fair  trial.' 

Katharine  mentally  decided  to  say  nothing  about  the  letter 
she  had  just  written,  and  upon  the  first  opportunity  to  burn  it. 
But  how  was  it  with  her  father  ?  Ought  she  to  have  disregarded 
his  doctors,  and  hers,  and  have  gone  to  him?  Would  the  right 
kind  of  daughter  have  responded  to  his  half-mad  appeal? 

She  turned  and  tossed,  but  the  question  followed — or  was 
varied  only  by  others  centering  about  Prince  Anton.  Had  the 
Princess  Margaretha  died?  If  so,  would  Anton  after  a  decent 
interval  feel  himself  free  to  treat  honourably  at  last — and  would 
he,  with  his  bland  lack  of  conscience,  refuse  to  see  that  it  was  too 
late?  Was  it  indeed  too  late — or  was  it  only  sickness  made  her 


1 5o  A  DARK  LANTERN 

feel  it  to  be  so?  'My  father'— 'Anton'— 'Anton'— 'father!' 
In  spite  of  saying:  'I  shall  not  get  well  if  I  dwell  on  such  disturb- 
ing themes,'  the  battledore  of  her  mind  sent  up  first  one  and  then 
another  of  these  shuttlecocks,  wearily  received  it  back,  and  sent 
it  flying  only  to  catch  the  other  again.  And  so  on,  hour  after 
hour,  jaded,  sick  in  every  sense,  she  played  the  weary  game. 

Again  at  luncheon,  as  last  night  at  dinner  (when  Katharine 
had  put  the  error  down  to  nervousness),  the  nurse  laid  the  silver 
covers  off  the  dishes  on  the  bed;  upside  down — but  the  steam 
or  grease  was  like  to  run  down  on  the  coverlid,  and  in  any  event 
the  very  sight  of  them  there  was  an  offence.  Katharine  asked  to 
have  them  removed. — 'There's  no  other  place,'  said  Nurse 
Phillips,  'every  place  here  is  covered  with  bric-a-brac.' 

'Ring  the  bell,  and  tell  them  to  bring  up  another  small  table.' 
And  so  it  was  that,  early  in  the  day,  the  nurse  had  discovered 
Katharine  to  be  'fussy,'  and  the  patient  had  seen  the  nurse  to 
have  'shiftless  ways.'  After  luncheon  the  blinds  were  drawn, 
and  Katharine  left  to  repose.  In  an  hour  Nurse  Phillips  was 
back,  pulling  the  silk  into  thick  folds  again,  and  letting  in  the 
grey  afternoon. 

'I  am  cold.  Will  you  ring,  and  ask  my  maid  for  a  thick  woolly 
dressing-jacket — a  pink  thing — she  knows.' 

'Yes,'  answered  the  nurse  in  a  preoccupied  tone,  folding  up  a 
towel. 

'Anton'— 'my  f ather '—' father '—' Anton '!  Oh,  to  get 

away  from  memory! 

'And  I'd  like,'  Katharine  went  on  aloud,  'my  patience  cards 
from  the  drawing-room.'  She  had  already  asked  for  them  in  the 
morning. 

'Oh,  yes,'  said  the  nurse  remembering,  'I'll  get  them  just  as 
soon  as '  She  was  bustling  about,  tidying  the  room. 

'Just  as  soon  as  what?' 

'After  Dr.  Vincent  has  been.' 

Ah!  thought  the  patient,  the  cause  of  this  sudden  fervour  for 
neatness  stands  revealed.  And  so  began  for  Katharine,  that 
focussing  of  all  life's  forces  upon  a  little  daily  routine.  She  smiled 
condescendingly  upon  her  growing  absorption  in  the  trivial — 
saying  to  herself  that  it  was  as  if  an  eye  that  had  looked  through 
field-glasses,  up  at  towering  Alps,  and  down  on  armies  contend- 


A  DARK  LANTERN  151 

ing  in  the  plain — had  suddenly  been  set  to  peer  at  life  through  a 
microscope.  Well — this  was  the  great  world,  too.  Perhaps 
after  all  only  intellectual  snobbery  could  deny  it  significance. 
And  then  she  smiled  faintly,  as  she  watched  the  nurse  smoothing 
the  tumbled  coverlid,  picking  up  a  thread  off  the  big  Persian 
rug — and  looking  back  at  the  fire.  Katharine's  eyes  followed 
every  movement,  as  the  blue-gowned  figure  bent,  and  pulled  the 
bearskin  a  little  to  the  right,  and  then  turning  again,  swept  patient 
and  apartment  with  an  eye  narrowed,  alert,  to  see  that  all  was 
ready  for  the  great  man's  fit  reception. 

Tdly  the  woman  in  the  bed  wondered  about  the  woman  moving 
in  the  room.  How  little  Katharine  knew  of  her  as  yet.  Nothing 
save  that  she  had  a  naturally  keen  desire  to  please  the  man  she 
worked  for,  and  that  in  common  with  the  majority  of  English 
nurses  her  neatness  was  superficial.  Colonel  Dereham's  and 
Lady  Peterborough's  illnesses  had  shown  up  the  fact  that  few  Eng- 
lish nurses,  even  among  those  best  born,  have  got  beyond  the  vul- 
gar fear  of  being  classed  with  servants — therefore  that  part  of  their 
duty  which  is  traditionally  'servant's  work'  they  slur  and  scamp, 
quite  in  the  fashion  of  the  least  admirable  of  the  class  they  are  most 
desirous  to  be  differentiated  from.  To  watch  Nurse  Phillips  dust 
the  room  was  to  lie  and  long  to  jump  up  and  show  her  how.  She 
shared  the  conviction  of  the  lower  class  Londoner,  that  to  clean  a 
room  was  to  stir  up  the  dust  in  it — at  most  to  remove  the  dirt  from 
one  quarter  to  another.  Katharine  had  tried,  that  morning,  to 
convince  herself  that  this  was  a  matter  quite  trivial  beside  the 
great  question  of  good  health,  or  even  beside  the  hardly  lesser  one 
of  good  feeling.  Although  she  longed  to  have  her  own  well- 
trained  people  about  her,  she  determined  to  set  aside  the  feeling, 
to  find  out  and  make  the  most  of  the  best  in  this  stiff  spinster,  that 
she  must  come  to  know  so  well  before  their  relations  ended.  What 
was  it  like  to  be  a  nurse?  To  see  people  only  at  their  worst? 
Had  she  ever  cared  for  anyone,  this  chill-visaged  Nurse  Phillips  ? 
What  kept  her  going — faithful  to  a  life  so  unlovely  and  so  scantily 
rewarded  ?  Just  now  she  seemed  a  prey  to  restlessness — went  in 
and  out  between  bath  and  bed-room,  and  made  frequent  excur- 
sions into  the  hall.  Katharine  heard  whispering  in  the  passage 
about  the  jacket.  For  no  discoverable  reason,  as  the  nurse  re- 
turned, suddenly  the  sick  woman  remembered  that  day  with 


iSa  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Anton  at  the  Polo  match.  The  nurse  made  a  rattling  among  the 
toilet-bottles  and  the  glasses.  Has  that  woman  ever  been  to  a 
Polo  match?  The  idea  was  somehow  ludicrous.  Hers  was  the 
grim  and  dingy  world  of  drugs  and  doctors. 

When  finally  she  came  to  the  bedside  with  a  pink  bundle,  she 
unfolded  it  with  some  faint  show  of  surprire. 

'Is  this  what  you  sent  for?'  she  said,  as  she  eyed  its  plainness. 

'Yes.'    Katharine  slowly  pulled  herself  into  a  sitting  posture. 

'  Shall  you  put  it  on  now,  before  the  doctor  conies  ? ' 

'Yes — it's  warmer.'  Then  laughing:  'You  think  it  not  smart 
enough?' 

'Oh,  that  doesn't  signify,'  said  the  other,  'though  most  patients 
don't  realize  how  very  little  it  matters  to  a  doctor  what  they  have 
on/ 

'Do  they  make  smart  toilets  sometimes?' 

'Very,'  and  she  smiled  for  the  first  time.  'I  had  a  patient 
once  who  was  very  untidy,  except  on  the  days  the  doctor  came. 
Then  she  would  put  on  a  yellow  silk  gown  embroidered  with 
topazes — a  wonderful  affair.  She  did  look  well  in  it,  too,'  Nurse 
Phillips  added  grudgingly.  'And  another  used  to  do  her  hair  in 
great  black  puffs  all  over  her  head,  and  sit  bolt  upright  in  her  bed 
for  hours,  so  not  a  hair  should  go  wrong  till  after  Dr.  Vincent  had 
been.'  With  a  feeling  of  scorn  for  such  feminine  weakness, 
Katharine,  exhibiting  a  sudden  energy,  flung  off  the  long  flimsy 
silk  gown  with  its  froth  of  white  lace,  and  threw  it  in  a  heap  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed. 

The  nurse  caught  it  up,  and  while  folding  it  hastily  (not  as 
Natalie  folded  things!)  she  glanced  sharply  about,  as  though  to 
assure  herself  nothing,  besides  this,  was  obviously  out  of  place.  In 
the  act  of  shutting  the  wardrobe-door,  she  looked  around  with  an 
assumption  of  deliberation  that  somehow,  to  the  sensitive  woman 
in  the  bed,  betrayed  more  nervous  concern  than  frank  exhibition 
of  excitement  would  have  done.  As  she  stood  listening  a  second 
with  head  thrown  back,  Nurse  Phillips  said  softly,  'That's  Dr. 
Vincent,  now.'  It  was  not  till  a  few  seconds  later  that  Katharine 
was  aware  of  the  sound  of  fast  driven  horses  brought  up  suddenly, 
and  the  sharp  attack  of  shoe-iron  on  the  asphalt  of  the  court 
underneath  her  windows.  But  to  Katharine  the  sound  meant 
Anton,  and  a  drive  through  sunny  streets  hung  with  green  and 


A  DARK  LANTERN  153 

white  Saxon  banners;  a  coach  brought  gallantly  up  to  the  porte 
cochere  of  a  new  house  in  an  old  park,  where  a  battle  had  been 
fought,  and  where  Lady  Peterborough  had  checkmated  the  boldest 
of  the  Prince's  moves. 

While  she  recalled  those  hours,  she  had  been  dreamily  feeling 
for  the  sleeve  of  the  woolly  garment — the  nurse  pulled  it  quickly 
within  range,  went  to  the  door,  returned  and  very  low  she  said: 

'He  is  running  up  the  stair,'  and  therewith  vanished. 

'He'  is  running  up  the  stair?    Ah  no. 

Almost  instantly  a  knock  not  loud  but  sharp. 

'Come  in.'    He  entered  with  her  words,  not  waiting  for  them. 

'Good  morning' — a  different  apparition  from  Anton  the  golden. 
A  swarthy  lowering  face,  a  figure  businesslike,  alert,  compact  of 
the  very  prose  of  life,  or  set  to  the  tune  of  utility  as  soldiers'  feet 
to  a  march.  He  had  come  swiftly  in,  seemed  not  even  to  look 
at  her,  went  straight  to  the  nearest  window,  already  down  an  inch 
from  the  top,  and  pulled  it  open  a  foot  and  a  half.  'You're  too 
hot  in  here,'  he  said,  and  stood  an  instant  taking  a  stethoscope 
out  of  his  pocket  and  fitting  it  together,  frowning  down  upon  it. 
Katharine  was  conscious  of  a  little  shudder  passing  over  her. 

'  I  shall  be  cold  with  so  much  raw  air  streaming  in  on  me,'  she 
said. 

'  It  doesn't  stream  on  you — streams  towards  the  door.' 

In  that  quick  way  of  his,  that  yet  was  so  unflurried,  he  came 
over  to  the  bed,  pushed  aside  the  white  enamel  chair  placed  for 
him,  and  sat  down  on  the  delicate  rose  coverlid. 

'Breathe,'  he  ordered.    'Breathe  again!    Again!' 

He  withdrew  the  stethoscope,  unscrewed  it,  and  still  with  that 
fixed  frown  he  said:  'The  first  thing  you've  got  to  do  is  to  stop 
starving  yourself.  It's  absurd  your  eating  a  continental  breakfast.' 

How  had  he  learned  in  the  second  outside  that  she 

'I  can't  possibly  eat  a  great  heavy  meal  early  in  the  day.' 

'Yes,  you  can.    You've  got  to.' 

'I  haven't  done  it  for  years.' 

'You've  been  running  down  for  years.' 

'Well,  at  all  events  I  must  have  my  first  cup  of  tea  before  my 
bath.'  Then  as  for  the  first  time,  apparently,  he  looked  at  her, 
she  smiled  disarmingly:  'What  do  you  think  that  nurse  brought 
me  bright  and  early?  Hot  milk  before  I  got  my  eyes  fairly  open.' 


i54  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'That  was  right.' 

'Oh,  I  assure  you ' 

'  Didn't  you  drink  it  ? '  he  glowered. 

'Well'  (laughing  a  little),  'the  nurse  seemed  to  think  it  was 
such  a  matter  of  life  and  death ' 

'So  it  is.' 

She  looked  at  him,  but  there  was  no  smiling  in  his  face. 

'She  wanted  me  to  drink  a  great  jorum  at  ten  o'clock  last  night, 
too.' 

'Quite  right.'  He  turned  abruptly  to  the  fireplace,  and  stood 
staring  at  the  pictures  an  instant.  Katharine  knew  as  well  as  if 
she  had  been  inside  his  head,  that  he  had  been  arrested  for  that 
second  by  the  water  colour  of  Prince  Anton,  brilliant  in  Prussian 
blue  and  gold  lace. 

'  I  don't  like  milk,'  said  Katharine  meekly. 

'What  has  that  to  do  with  it?'  He  wheeled  back  upon  her, 
but  as  her  eyes  searched  his  face,  she  could  not  tell  whether  he 
was  looking  at  her  or  not.  He  seemed  never  to 'want  to  look  at 
her,  and  yet  it  was  his  business  to. 

' .  .  .  How  can  I  drink  milk  so  soon  after  dining  ? ' 

'How  soon?' 

'Oh,  we  have  dinner  like  most  people  at  a  quarter  past  eight.' 

'You  must  dine  at  seven.'  She  opened  her  lips,  but  forbore  to 
say  how  dreadfully  it  would  upset  the  servants.  She  knew  the 
answer  to  that :  Then  you  must  go  to  a  Nursing  Home ! 

She  sacrificed  the  servants'  equilibrium  without  a  qualm. 

'Your  business  is  to  eat,  and  sleep,  and  not  to  think,'  he  said 
glancing  towards  the  fireplace,  and  (Katharine  could  have  sworn) 
at  Anton's  picture. 

'You  said  I  might  read?' 

'Yes— trash.' 

He  picked  up  a  book  on  the  low  table  at  the  bed's  head. 

' Poetry!  'he  said  derisively  and  dropped  it.  'That's  not  the 
kind  of  trash  I  mean. — Read  novels,  novels  without  any  "prob- 
lems" in  them.'  He  was  making  for  the  door. 

'You  haven't  given  me  any  medicine,'  she  half  sat  up  to  say. 

'Yes,  I  have.  Milk, — mutton — oh,  you'll  be  given  medicine,' 
and  he  laughed  suddenly,  with  an  air  of  dour  malice,  as  he  shut 
the  sick  room  door. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  155 

'Humph!  odd  creature,'  she  mentally  ejaculated,  and  then 
began  the  treadmill  round:  Father — Anton — the  wasted  past, 
the  unlit  future. 

While  Katharine  was  having  her  first  frugal  tea  under  the  new 
regime,  Nurse  Phillips  sat  in  the  chair  Vincent  had  thrust  aside 
a  couple  of  hours  before,  sat  there  silent  save  for  the  remark: 

'Butter  and  cream  are  very  good  for  you.' 

Then  presently  as  Katharine  seemed  to  take  no  notice:  'Dr. 
Vincent  will  expect  you  to  eat  at  dinner  all  the  butter  you  leave 
now.' 

The  patient  smiled  at  the  solemnity  of  the  warning:  even  faintly 
curious. 

'What  would  happen  if  I  disappointed  him?' 

'He  would  probably  come  round.' 

'Come  round.'? 

'Yes.' 

'  Come  here  ?  again  ?  to-night  ?' 

'Oh  yes.' 

Katharine  lay  and  idly  considered  the  matter.  'How  would 
he  know  I'd ' 

'I  should  have  to  telephone  him.' 

'  Did  you  ever  have  to  do  that  ? ' 

'Oh,  yes.' 

'What  happened?' 

'He  is  always  in  one  of  his  black  rages,  when  he's  sent  for.' 

'What  good  does  being  in  a  rage  do?'  inquired  Katharine 
with  some  dignity,  but  spreading  the  butter  thicker  on  the  toast. 

'All  the  good  in  the  world  in  some  cases.  Patients  will  say 
they  can't  possibly  eat  any  more.  I've  explained,  and  begged,  and 
done  all  in  my  power.  They  say,  to  save  their  lives  they  can't 
swallow  another  morsel.  I  tell  them,  in  that  case,  it  is  my  duty 
to  ring  up  Doctor  Vincent.  They  say  it  doesn't  matter  if  I  do. 
It  doesn't  matter  even  if  he  comes.  They  seem  to  count  on  his 
not  coming,  but'  (she  shook  her  head,  with  a  grim  smile,  as  who 
should  comment  silently  on  the  vanity  of  human  hopes)  'he  does 
come — looking  like,  well — he  isn't  pleasant  at  such  moments.' 

' What  happens?' 

'He  goes  in  and  shuts  the  door.' 

'Well?' 


I56  A  DARK  LANTERN 

The  nurse  made  a  little  awkward  but  eloquent  gesture  with  her 
purple  hands. 

The  shutting  of  the  door  was  probably  not  followed  by  man- 
slaughter, so:  'What  do  you  suppose  he  says?'  asked  Katharine 
amused,  interested. 

'  Oh,  we  don't  know  what  he  says — he  always  sees  his  patients 
alone.' 

'Aren't  you  told  afterwards?' 

'Not  usually.' 

'  But — but  what  do  you  suppose ' 

'If  it's  a  woman,  she's  generally  crying  when  I  go  back.  Even 
the  men  seem  rather  unnerved — but,'  with  a  little  laugh  in  which 
triumph  subtly  entered,  'the  plate  is  always  clean.' 

'  I'd  rather  like  to  see  him  in  one  of  his  rages.' 

'No,  you  wouldn't,'  interrupted  Nurse  Phillips  with  conviction. 

'Ah,  well,'  said  Katharine.  'I  dare  say  he  won't  show  that 
side  here.'  She  spoke  with  the  easy  assumption  of  the  woman 
who,  much  as  she  had  been  lied  to,  had  never  in  her  life  been 
treated  rudely. 

'I  wouldn't  depend  on  that,'  observed  the  nurse. 

'Depend  on  what?' 

'  On  his  being  any  different  here  from  elsewhere.  He's  exactly 
the  same  to  everybody.  Royalty  and  all.'  As  Katharine  looked 
at  her  she  had  a  glimpse  of  a  new  source  of  satisfaction  to  the 
infinitely  various  human  mind.  This  gaunt  woman  by  the  fire 
was  accessible  to  something  very  like  pleasure,  not  far  off  from 
pride,  in  truth,  at  the  spectacle  of  fine  ladies  brought  under  the 
law  of  the  master  she  herself  so  zealously  served.  Of  no  avail 
their  arts  and  wiles — their  rich  trappings  and  high-sounding 
names.  That  they  were  all  one  to  Garth  Vincent,  gave  the  very 
English  mind  of  the  nurse,  her  moment  of  high  equality,  which 
otherwise  she  could  not  attain — gave  her  at  times  even  an  uplift- 
ing sense  of  superiority.  For  she,  the  nurse,  was  a  sort  of  Grand 
Vizier  to  the  Great  Mogul — through  him  she  touched  the  springs 
of  life  outside  her  sphere,  through  him  laid  hands  on  Power.  If 
he  ruled  her  with  a  rod  of  iron,  he  left  a  fragment  of  that  harsh 
sceptre  in  her  hand,  and  in  her  arid  days  some  of  the  heady  joy 
of  playing  despot — irresistible  to  one  who  had  looked  at  life  only 
from  beneath.  Nurse  Phillips  was  naturally  a  silent  woman — 


A  DARK  LANTERN  157 

indeed,  it  was  that  quality,  coupled  with  unswerving  obedience, 
that  had  secured  to  her  a  permanent  place  on  Vincent's  staff,  but 
to  Miss  Dereham  she  talked.  While  Katharine  dined  that  night 
she  again  put  questions  that  loosed  the  unready  tongue. 

'We  had  a  very  beautiful  woman  at  the  Home  once,  doing  a 
modified  Rest  Cure,  Miss  Nina  Bellair ' 

'  Qh,  the  singer  ? ' 

'Yes,  and  after  a  fortnight  she  wasn't  any  better.  So  the  Doc- 
tor said:  "Put  flesh  on  that  patient.'"  Her  voice  had  taken 
on  something  of  Vincent's  brusquerie.  'The  first  day  that  she 
had  a  4-ounce  luncheon  (4  ounces  of  mutton,  4  toast,  4  vegetable, 
4  milk-pudding),  I  was  called  to  the  telephone  a  moment,  and 
when  I  got  back,  I  was  astonished  to  find  she'd  eaten  all  her 
mutton  so  quickly.  I  went  out  to  bring  in  the  pudding,  and  met 
the  Doctor.' 

'Vincent?' 

'Yes,  Dr.  Vincent,'  and  Katharine  from  that  hour  needed  not 
to  ask  again  who,  of  all  the  medical  profession,  was  'the  Doctor.' 
'He'd  been  sent  for  to  see  a  man  in  the  Home  who  was  bad.  I 
passed  with  my  patient's  clean  plate  just  as  he — Dr.  Vincent — 
came  out  of  the  opposite  room.  "Did  she  eat  it  all?"  he  said. 
"Well,  I  suppose  so,"  I  answered — for  it's  as  much  as  your  head 
is  worth  to  make  the  least  mistake  with  him.  He'd  call  it  lying. 
He  told  one  of  the  nurses,  once,  that  all  women  were  natural 
liars.'  She  smiled,  curiously,  as  at  some  endearment.  '"Don't 
you  know  if  she's  eaten  it  all?"  he  said.  So  I  told  him  I'd  had  to 
go  to  the  telephone  a  moment.  He  was  half  way  downstairs  as  I 
said  the  words,  but  he  turned  back  and  called  out  "Bring  the  rest 
of  her  luncheon,"  and  he  was  in  my  patient's  room  like  a  flash 
of  lightning.  When  I  got  there,  he  was  walking  up  and  down 
talking  about  the  place  he'd  been  to  for  his  last  holiday,  but  I 
could  see  that  his  eyes  were  darting  everywhere.  He  stared  at 
the  fire,  told  me  to  put  on  some  coals,  and,  while  I  did  so,  he 
looked  far  back  in  the  scuttle — went  to  the  window,  and  examined 
the  pavement  and  the  gutter — and  all  the  while  he  talked  about 
Herzegovina.  While  the  last  of  the  pudding  was  being  helped, 
he  took  the  tongs,  and  put  them  a  little  way  up  the  chimney  be- 
hind that  iron  flap — -you  haven't  got  it  here,  but  you  know  the 
kind  of  draught  thing  I  mean.  I  saw  my  patient  stop,  with  her 


iS8  A  DARK  LANTERN 

last  spoonful  half  way  to  her  mouth.  I  looked  round,  and  Dr. 
Vincent  was  holding  out  with  the  tongs  a  slice  of  mutton  an  inch 
thick,  powdered  all  over  with  soot.' 

'Well?' 

'Oh,  I  fled  out  of  the  room.' 

'But  what  happened?' 

'The  pudding  plate  was  very  sooty,'  she  said,  getting  up  with 
her  grim  smile. 

'You  can't  think  the  woman  ate  a  piece  of  meat  that  had  been 
up  the  chimney?' 

'I  don't  think  Dr.  Vincent  ate  it.' 

'Disgusting  of  him  to  make  the  poor  thing ' 

'No,  it  was  just  what  she  needed.  She  was  very  spoiled  and 
difficult  before.  No  more  trouble  after  that.  She  got  fat  and 
well.  Married  now,  you  know,  and  has  a  baby.' 

'I  consider  that  a  most  revolting  story,'  said  Katharine,  plaster- 
ing the  butter  thick  on  her  last  mouthful.  'He'd  made  a  great 
mistake  if  he  supposed  such  treatment  would  succeed  with  every 
patient.' 

'He  doesn't  make  many  mistakes.' 

'Probably  he  thought  that  anybody  weak-minded  enough  to 
hide  the  meat,  could  be  coerced  into  eating  it.  How  exceedingly 
silly  to  refuse  food  until  he  comes  and  lectures  you! — no  wonder 
he  has  a  poor  opinion  of  women.' 

The  next  day  at  eleven  a  masseuse  knocked  at  the  door. 

'I  didn't  send  for  a  masseuse.' 

'Dr.  Vincent  sent  her.' 

'But  I  don't  want  massage ' 

'Dr.  Vincent  always  insists  upon  massage  in  a  case  like  yours. 
Come  in  please,  Miss  Gillies.' 

'A  case  like  mine.'  Did  that  doctor-man  think  it  was  so  easily 
classifiable — my  case?  Had  he,  in  the  purblind  fashion  of  his 
profession,  so  lightly  diagnosed  and  docketed  her  strange  and 
complex  quarrel  with  existence?  But  here  was  the  big  Scotch- 
woman with  a  form  of  treatment  Katharine  had  often  tried,  and 
especially  disliked.  It  had  never  soothed,  but  seemed  rather  to 
excite  and  irritate  her.  She  did  not  belong  to  the  cat  tribe — it  is 
not  any  hand  that  can  help  these  highly  specialized  senses — and 
it  is  this  that  men  (in  only  a  few  of  whom  the  same  sensitiveness 


A  DARK  LANTERN  159 

exists) — it  is  this  that  they  forget,  or  have  never  realized.  For 
Katharine  Dereham  to  be  touched  by  strange  hands  was  an  offence 
to  the  spirit,  a  positive  hurt  to  the  nerves.  For  such  people, 
massage  may  be  a  hindrance  rather  than  a  help  to  health.  It 
was  something,  that  she  should  instinctively  have  liked  the  big, 
raw-boned,  fresh-coloured  woman,  albeit  she  hated  the  office 
she  was  there  to  perform.  Katharine  quickly  made  up  her 
mind  to  submit  'just  for  to-day'  in  order  to  preserve,  before  his 
subordinates,  the  air  of  conforming  to  the  Doctor's  commands. 
It  was  like  a  man  to  prescribe  massage  as  a  matter  of  routine! 

Katharine,  who  had  lived  too  much  with  men  to  share  the 
frequent  feminine  delusion  that  they  were  utterly  different  from 
women,  had  not  waited  until  now  to  feel  that  such  slight  difference 
as  she  could  verify,  came  uppermost  in  their  apprehension  of 
things  of  sense.  A  man  is  able  to  divorce  satisfaction  of  the 
body  from  satisfaction  of  the  mind;  with  the  highly  civilized 
woman  they  are  one.  No  man  feels  the  same  wonder  and  amaze 
that  strikes  so  sharp  upon  a  woman,  when  she  hears  of  a  man's 
dalliance  with  serving-maids  at  home,  or  abroad  with  Asiatics. 
If  a  woman  looks  below  her  station,  her  heart  and  mind  will 
make  some  sort  of  shift  (often  strangely  successful)  to  follow  after 
her  eyes.  She  cannot,  unless  she  is  wholly  base,  find  the  joy  she 
looks  for,  on  any  other  terms.  Even  for  health  or  service,  physical 
contact,  except  with  those  who  are  dear,  is  an  oppression  and 
a  horror.  That  women  of  Katharine  Dereham 's  type  are  inacces- 
sible to  bodily  benefits  unless  they  come  in  special  guise,  is  a  part 
of  the  complex  work  of  civilization.  Garth  Vincent,  with  all  his 
cleverness,  would  not  understand.  Still  she  would  tell  him,  when 
he  came  in  the  afternoon,  that,  however  it  might  do  in  other  cases, 
massage  was  bad  for  her. 

She  kept  her  eye  on  the  clock  as  the  hour  drew  near,  made  a 
pretence  of  reading — but  was  really  revolving  in  her  mind  how 
she  would  put  this  objection  to,  this  rejection  of  (she  firmly 
amended),  a  part  of  his  treatment  that  he  'always  insists  upon.' 
Three.  Ten  past.  A  quarter.  She  took  another  book.  Half 
past.  Four.  Oh,  of  course  he  can't  always  come  at  the  same 
time.  I'll  have  my  way  about  the  massage.  Four-thirty.  The 
nurse  brought  tea.  Katharine  hurried  through  it  that  she  might 
not  be  in  the  middle  when  he  came.  Still  no  sign  of  him.  Five- 


160  A  DARK  LANTERN 

thirty.  Six  o'clock.  She  began  to  feel  rather  angry.  He  was 
neglecting  her  for  someone  else.  'Does  Dr.  Vincent  ever  come 
as  late  as  half -past  six  ? ' 

'Oh  yes,  if  he  has  been  prevented  from  coming  earlier.'  But 
the  nurse  was  putting  the  weights  on  the  scales.  'Will  you  let 
me  take  your  weight  now?'  Katharine  listened  for  the  sound  of 
his  horses'  hoofs  upon  the  asphalt.  Nothing.  As  she  was  getting 
back  to  bed,  'I  suppose  he  won't  come  now,'  she  said. 

'To-night!  Oh  no.  He  hasn't  time  to  see  any  one  patient 
more  than  three  times  a  week — unless  they're  worse  or  send  for 
him.  Then  he  rushes  in  for  an  instant.' 

And  she  had  watched  and  waited  hours  for  the  creature!    Yes, 
she  felt  distinctly  angry.     But  she  did  not  realize  that  it  was  the 
first  day  for  years,  that  she  had  not  thought  of  Anton.     The  first 
night  that  he,  or  her  father,  had  failed  to  haunt  her  pillow. 
***** 

On  the  occasion  of  Vincent's  second  visit  the  following  day, 
he  came  in  like  a  jocular  ogre,  saying  'Now  I  want  some  of 
your  blood.  We'll  see  if  you're  as  anaemic  as  you  look.'  He 
washed  her  middle  finger  with  an  antiseptic  that  made  it  cold  as 
ice.  Then  he  stabbed  the  pink  tip  with  apparent  satisfaction. 
'Hurt?'  he  said,  with  a  grin,  as  the  blood  answered.  The  little 
glass  beak  of  the  tiny  tube  drank  the  red  bead  greedily,  and  held 
it  in  a  scarlet  thread.  But  he  did  it  four  times,  and  when  she 
winced  he  smiled. 

'Anaemic!'  she  said — 'is  that  what  makes  me  look  such  a 
fright?' 

'It's  partly  that,'  he  said,  accepting  her  description  without  a 
qualm.  And  then  with  that  look  of  Schadenfreude,  she  was  coming 
to  know,  he  glanced  up  from  some  occult  proceeding  at  the  table. 
— 'Your  type  fades  early  in  any  case.' 

She  felt  the  words  quite  as  much  as  he  could  have  wished,  but 
she  presented  a  smiling  front. 

'What  is  the  type  that  lasts  best?' 

'Brunette,  of  course.  A  dark  eye  may  be  bright  at  eighty.' 
He  had  let  his  own  flash  across  the  face  upon  the  pillow.  Then 
quickly,  as  if  to  forestall  any  mistake  in  her  mind  as  to  what  he 
found  there, — '  Of  course,  any  woman  who  is  a  walking  skeleton 
looks  older  even  than  she  is.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  161 

Even  than  she  is  I  Heavens !  the  creature  talks  as  if  I  were 
fifty! 

'  Good-bye.'  He  was  gone — and  the  nurse  was  there  gathering 
up  some  things  he  had  left  on  the  table,  and  putting  them  into 
a  black  bag.  And  she  had  forgotten  to  say  she  wouldn't  have 
massage!  So  she  had  it — and  she  had  it  twice  a  day. 

'Did  you  tell  him  about  your  neuralgia?'  asked  the  nurse. 

'No.  I  thought  you  would.  Don't  you  tell  him  everything 
that  he  ought  to  know  ? ' 

'Yes,  when  I  can  get  him  to  attend.' 

'When  you  can  get  him  to  attend?  Why,  he  must  attend. 
That's  what  he  conies  for.' 

The  nurse  preserved  a  non-committal  silence. 

'It's  much  better  you  should  tell  him  details,  than  that  I  should. 
But  it's  quite  necessary  he  should  know.' 

'Everything  goes  down  on  the  chart.' 

'  Does  he  always  read  the  chart  ? ' 

'He  usually  glances  at  it — but  he  reads  the  patient.  He  can 
tell  more  by  looking  at  you  than  most  doctors  can  by  cutting 
you  open.' 

'That  is  pure  superstition,'  returned  Katharine,  nettled  not 
only  by  the  crudity  of  the  phrase.  'I  don't  care  myself  to  tell 
him  sick-room  details — and  then  he's  always  in  such  a  hurry — 
besides,  it's  far  better  you  should.  You  know  how  to  put  them.' 

'I  tried  to  get  hold  of  him  to-day  to  speak  about  your  wanting 
coffee.  I  ran  down  the  first  flight  trying  to  explain,  but  he 
wouldn't  take  any  notice.' 

'I  shall  ask  him  the  next  time  he  comes  to  be  good  enough  to 
answer  my  nurse 

'Oh,  please — Please  I'  Her  consternation  was  comic.  'You 
won't  do  that — it  would  be  the  ruin  of  any  nurse.' 

'If  I  asked  my  doctor  to  listen  to  her  reasonable  questions 
about  her  care  of  me?  Preposterous!' 

'Oh,  he  does  listen.  Don't  imagine  he  loses  anything  that's 
said.' 

'How  do  you  know?' 

'It  always  turns  out  so.  He  never  seems  to  look, — sees  every- 
thing— doesn't  listen,  hears  everything.' 

'Then,  why  didn't  he  answer  about  my  having  coffee?' 


i62  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'It  was  an  answer,  you  see.' 

'His  saying  nothing?' 

'Why,  yes.     You  haven't  had  it.' 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  next  day,  in  the  ten  minutes  before  he  was  due,  Nurse 
Phillips  went  about  the  room  folding  up  towels,  putting  slippers 
out  of  sight,  and  altogether  fidgeting  about  in  a  way  that  she 
seemed  to  reserve  solely  for  this  particular  hour  three  times  in 
the  week. 

'Oh,  you  needn't  be  so  particular,'  Katharine  said  at  last. 

'His  own  house  is  not  so  immaculate Have  you  ever  seen 

his  wife?'  she  asked  suddenly. 

The  nurse  stopped  and  stared.  'His  wife?  He  is  not 
married.' 

'Oh,  isn't  he?' 

'No,  he  has  nobody  but  a  little  invalid  step-brother — a  cripple 
— that  he's  devoted  to.  Dr.  Vincent  has  all  sorts  of  great  people 
asking  him  to  their  houses' — Nurse  Phillips  spoke  with  an  air 
of  personal  pride — 'but  he  never  disappoints  that  sick  boy.  A 
patient  of  mine,  a  well-known  society- woman,  once  told  me: 
"We  know  now  if  he  says, '  I've  promised  to  dine  with  my  brother,' 
it's  no  use  saying  another  word."' 

So  he  had  not  married  the  horsey  young  woman!  Katharine 
was  not  foolish  enough  to  believe  it  was  for  her  sake  he  had  been 
so  long  single.  She  knew  the  world  better  than  that.  Women 
did  such  things,  not  men. 

But  why  had  he ? 


CHAPTER  IV 

SHE  was  reading  a  little  volume  that  Anton  had  given  her, 
during  the  days  of  enchantment  in  Rome — an  exquisite  diamond 
edition  of  Dante's  sonnets — when  Vincent  appeared,  chart  in 
hand,  and  on  his  lips  the  words:  'Well,  how's  this  patient?' — 
setting  her  in  the  pigeon-hole  of  her  affliction,  roughly  stripped  of 
individuality,  labelled  only,  a  disease.  By  a  deliberate  emphasis, 
too,  underscoring  the  pitiful  commonness  of  her  plight.  With 
that  quick  step  of  his,  all  day  long,  he  was  in  and  out  of  sick- 
rooms— this,  one  of  scores. 

She  laid  the  white  vellum  volume  down,  keeping  her  finger  in 
the  place,  and  said  'Good-morning'  with  an  easily  discernible 
access  of  dignity.  If  nothing  of  this  escaped  him,  he  made  no 
sign. 

'I  have  forgotten  to  tell  you  before,'  she  said,  'that  massage 
doesn't  agree  with  me.' 

'How  do  you  know  it  doesn't  agree  with  you?' 

'By  the  after-effects.' 

'What  are  they?' 

'Overfatigue.' 

'Oh,  that  isn't  the  massage — that's  the  foolish  life  you've  led.' 

'But  it  frets  me  to — to' — she  was  losing  her  temper — 'to  be 
pawed  about.'  He  only  laughed.  'I  don't  want  any  more  of  it,' 
she  said. 

'You've  got  to  have  it,'  he  said  shortly. 

'No,  really,  it  does  me  no  good,  and  I  dislike  it  extremely.' 

'By  God,  if  one  got  only  what  one  liked  in  this  world! — you'll 
find  you  won't  like  plenty  of  things,'  he  assured  her  encouragingly. 

'But  I ' 

He  cut  her  short  by  throwing  the  chart  down  on  the  pink  cover- 

163 


i64  A  DARK  LANTERN 

H  i,  and  he  took  the  little  volume  out  of  her  hand.  Looked  at  it 
suspiciously,  and  ejaculated,  'More  poetry' — as  if  he  had  caught 
her  taking  opium.  'Italian,  too,'  he  added,  as  though  this  be- 
trayed a  blacker  depth.  He  threw  the  book  on  the  table.  'If 
you  want  to  give  yourself  a  chance  to  get  well,  leave  sentimental 
rot  alone — for  six  weeks,  anyhow.' 

'You  may  not  care  about  it  yourself,  but  poetry  has  helped 
many  a  sick  person ' 

'Never  helped  anybody,'  he  retorted  angrily.  'The  Poets  are 
responsible  for  a  lot  of  harm — filling  women's  minds  with  foolish- 
ness, encouraging  their  weakness — blinding  them  to  reality.  I 
tell  you  your  only  chance  is  to  let  the  ideal  alone  and  be  an  animal 
for  a  time.  Eat,  sleep,  and  leave  sentiment  to  fools.' 

'I'm  not  sentimental.' 

'Oh,  aren't  you!'  he  rapped  out. 

She  shook  her  head  with  an  inclination  to  laugh,  rather 
than  be  angry.  'You  think  I  am,  because  you've  heard  I  write 
poetry.' 

'I've  read  some  of  it!'  he  snorted. 

'Ohf  she  blinked,  confounded.  'But  one  can  write  poetry 
and  yet  be  quite  sensible.'  He  sat  lowering.  '/  am.' 

' are  what?'  he  demanded,  not  looking  at  her. 

'Quite  sensible,'  she  answered  seriously. 

'Well,  let's  see!'  he  tossed  the  challenge  out. 

She  half  sat  up,  and  laid  hands  on  the  chart. 

'That's  not  for  you.'  He  took  it  from  her  with  scant  ceremony. 
Then,  as  the  caprice  seized  her  again,  to  laugh  up  into  the  lower- 
ing face,  he  shot  a  look  at  her  that  quenched  her  sense  of  the 
comic  as  he  said  harshly:  'There's  nothing  ideal  about  your 
present  circumstances,  I  can  tell  you  that!'  He  took  a  blue 
paper  out  of  his  pocket,  spread  it  open  on  the  chart,  and  looked 
at  it  a  moment.  'This  is  your  first  analysis.  Nice  reading!' 

'What  does  it  say?' 

He  threw  the  paper  on  the  rose-silk  coverlid.  'You  can  look 
at  that  all  you  like.' 

She  took  it  up.  'What  does  it  mean?  I  can't  understand 
these  words.' 

'Lucky  for  you,'  he  jeered. 

'Is  it  a  very  bad  report?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  165 

'Rotten!  Rotten  state  of  things.'  He  waited  a  moment  to 
give  her  the  full  benefit  of  the  good  news,  and  then  took  the  paper 
back,  and  smoothed  it  out  under  his  slim  brown  fingers,  that 
seemed  no  part  of  his  vigorous,  essentially  masculine  frame.  '  We 
have  here,'  he  spoke  like  a  professor  demonstrating  before  a  class, 
'a  pasty-faced  subject ' 

'  You  mean  me  ? ' 

'Yes.     Haven't  you  looked  in  the  glass?' 

Anton!  she  mentally  apostrophized  with  a  little  gasp.  Hear 
him!  shades  of  all  who  have  spoken  women  fair — since  Eve  first 
knew  she  was  in  Paradise  by  words  on  Adam's  lips! 

As  he  sat  with  his  black  look  bent  upon  the  paper,  she  hesitated 
between  hysterical  laughter  and  downright  anger.  Of  what  use 
to  be  angry  with  such  a  creature  ?  With  a  sort  of  grim  gusto  he 
was  uttering  his  few  bald  phrases,  about  the  poverty  of  her  blood 
and  her  generally  deplorable  state. 

'I  knew  you  were  ill,  but  I  didn't  know  how  ill.'  Katharine 
was  grave  enough  now.  '  If  you  hadn't  come  in  that  morning ' 

'What  would  have  happened?'  she  said  very  low. 

'You'd  have  had  a  bad  breakdown.' 

Suddenly  all  the  horror  of  those  days  and  nights  before  she 
went  to  him — suddenly  it  all  came  rolling  back,  threatening  to 
overwhelm.  Had  she  been  having  only  a  little  respite  here, 
lulled  by  some  curious  hypnotic  quality  in  the  man  who  had  set 
himself  to  try  the  experiment  of  saving  her  ?  What  did  he  really 
think  of  her  chances  ?  She  had  no  fear  that  he  would  lie.  If  he 
could  be  induced  to  say  he  believed  she  would  get  well,  she  would 
know  it  a  thing  long  ago  appointed,  fixed  by  Fate,  unalterable; 
secure — that  she  should  find  health  again.  But  in  putting  the 
question,  she  had  the  sense  of  running  a  ghastly  risk.  She  was 
not  so  ready  to  die  as  she  had  thought — and  death  was  far  from 
being  the  worst  that  might  befall.  Could  she  bear  the  truth? 
For  if  he  should  be  doubtful  it  would  mean  the  worst.  It  he  were 
to  hesitate  an  instant,  it  would  mean  'thumbs  down.'  But  if  he 
could  be  got  to  say  all  would  be  well — why,  then,  'not  all  the 
angels  in  heaven  above,  nor  the  devils  down  under  the  sea,'  could 
tear  that  certainty  away.  Oh  yes,  she  had  been,  as  he  said,  on 
the  brink  of  a  bad  breakdown,  that  morning  she  had  hurried  to 
Cavendish  Square. 


T66  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'But  you  did  come  in,'  he  said  after  the  pause,  getting  up  sud- 
denly as  one  who  has  dealt  exhaustively  with  his  subject. 

'Wait  a  moment.'  She  sat  straight,  and  held  up  a  detaining 
hand,  as  he  was  making  for  the  door.  He  never  halted,  but 
turned  his  dark  face  over  his  shoulder.  'Shall  I  gel  well?1  she 
said,  dropping  her  voice  to  a  whisper  as  he  flung  open  the  door. 

'Of  course  you'll  get  well,'  he  answered,  speaking  louder  than 
usual, — 'if  you  do  what  you're  told.' 

And  she  heard  him  running  downstairs. 

Before  Nurse  Phillips  brought  into  Katharine's  room  any  of 
the  many  flowers  sent  the  patient  by  her  friends,  she  carefully 
abstracted  the  notes.  So  that  except  for  Anton's  roses,  which 
always  came  on  Thursdays,  and  needed  no  labelling — with  that 
sole  exception,  Katharine  had  no  idea  who  was  remembering  her 
and  who  forgetting.  'Was  no  card  sent  up  with  these?'  she 
would  ask  at  first,  feeling  an  oppression  at  the  menace  of  a  name 
— at  the  thought  of  anyone,  even  thus  symbolically,  penetrating 
her  retreat.  But  the  gaunt  nurse  would  stiffen  her  thin  body,  and 
say  with  the  air  of  a  school  ma'am  checking  a  froward  pupil: 
'Dr.  Vincent  prefers  the  names  not  to  be  given.'  And  again  that 
curtain,  that  had  trembled,  moved  an  instant,  as  if  a  hand  were  in 
the  act  of  sweeping  it  aside  to  admit  the  horde  without — again  at 
Vincent's  sharp  command,  it  fell  softly  down  between  Katharine 
and  all  the  world,  thick,  motionless,  impenetrable.  Nestling 
secure  under  the  coverlid,  Katharine  smiled. 

'You  will  get  all  the  cards  and  notes  when  you  are  well, 'added 
the  nurse,  as  if  to  forestall  complaint. 

'When  did  he  make  that  rule?' 

'Oh,  before  I  began  to  nurse  for  him.' 

Katharine  was  even  disappointed  that  she  might  not  regard  it 
as  a  precaution  specially  invented  for  her  safe-guarding.  More 
and  more  she  secretly  hugged  the  sense  of  having  someone  to 
keep  the  big  roaring  world  at  bay.  But  that  did  not  prevent  her 
from  now  and  then  affecting  some  concern  for  the  thing  she  was 
cut  off  from. 

'Is  there  going  to  be  a  General  Election?'  she  asked  Vincent 
one  day. 

'  Looks  rather  like  it.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  167 

'I  shall  never  catch  up!  I  suppose  all  sorts  of  things  are 
happening?  .  .  .' 

' Not  that  7  know  of .  Beastly  weather!  You're  lucky  to  be  in 
bed  such  a  day.' 

He  left  her  with  the  feeling  that  had  grown  and  grown,  as  of 
one  on  board  ship  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean.  Imagination 
at  first  was  always  going  back  to  the  moment  of  leave-taking — • 
not  only  of  persons,  but  of  material  means  of  communication. 
There  had  been  the  usual  last  moments  when  letters  were  hurried 
on  board,  telegraph-boys  rushed  back  and  forth,  messenger-boys 
with  'Express'  notes  and  flowers — friends  ran  up  and  down  the 
gangway.  Then  the  thousand  threads  in  an  instant  severed,  the 
whole  of  life  cut  off,  and  you  swung  out  to  sea.  But  the  image 
dissatisfied  her  now.  She  replaced  it  by  a  picture  of  herself  in  a 
moated  house  set  upon  a  hill-top.  Many  roads  leading  up,  and 
all  full  of  people,  all  bound  for  the  hill-house.  On  a  sudden 
Vincent  had  ordered  the  drawbridge  up  and  no  soul  could  pass. 
They  stood  baulked,  making  appeals  from  the  far  side  of  the 
moat.  Vincent  shook  his  head;  they  turned  away  and  vanished. 
And  Vincent  had  gone  round  the  high-perched  house  and  cut  all 
the  wires.  These  were,  mysteriously,  not  telegraph  and  telephone 
alone,  but  sentient  avenues  of  emotion,  as  well  as  of  practical 
communication.  Each  man  and  woman  who  had  established 
anything  like  close  intercourse  or  intimate  understanding  with  the 
lady  in  the  hill-house,  each  one  in  her  life  who  'mattered,'  had 
woven  a  thread  from  the  innermost  seat  of  his  consciousness 
to  the  innermost  seat  of  hers.  And  each  upon  his  string — each 
one  pulled  and  played,  until  Vincent  had  gone  all  round  the 
house  and  cut  them  every  one. 

She  had  a  distinct  vision  of  the  ends  of  these  cut  threads  and 
wires  hanging  limp,  relaxed,  over  the  moat's  high  wall.  And, 
oddly  enough,  the  fancy  brought  her  a  more  perfect  rest  than  she 
had  known.  This  was  what  he  meant  when  he  said  'isolation' — 
bless  him!  No  pulse  of  that  swift  current  that  throbbed  round 
the  world  could  reach  and  electrify  Katharine  Dereham  to  pleasure 
or  to  pain.  Yielding  herself  up  to  the  blissful  sense  of  detach- 
ment and  quiescence,  she  saw,  as  a  non-combatant  might  see 
from  afar,  through  the  dust  and  smoke  of  a  distant  battle — saw 
better  than  the  men  who  fought,  how  the  conflict  tended.  In 


1 68  A  DARK  LANTERN 

calling  modern  civilization  'Progress'  men  were  proud.  What 
more  civilized  than  this  constant  'going  forward'?  What  had 
the  Nineteenth  Century  struggled  for  more  than  any  other  gain? 
What  had  it  achieved  for  the  million?  Enormously  increased 
facility  for  'going  forward.'  And  where  men  could  not  go  them- 
selves, they  sent  their  spirit — through  the  penny  post  or  flitting 
ghostly  over  wires.  Movement,  Progress — were  they  indeed 
civilization  ?  Had  the  Nineteenth  Century  marvels  of  locomotion 
and  intercommunication — two  sides  of  the  same  shield — had 
they  made  men  better  friends  than  the  elder  world  had  seen? 
Had  they  made  tenderer  lovers — or  strengthened  the  family  tie? 
Hardly.  Were  the  nations  closer  drawn?  Yes,  for  competition, 
hatred,  conflict. 

That  din  of  many  voices,  Intercommunication,  and  its  twin 
horror,  incessant  Locomotion— these  it  was  that  had  given  the 
world  a  new  aspect,  and  mankind  a  new  disease.  Neurasthenia 
had  the  foremost  nations  in  its  grip.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ? 
as  Vincent  said.  People  spend  more  and  more  every  year  on 
mere  movement.  In  the  old  days,  even  your  fine  gentleman,  if 
after  his  college  days,  he  made  the  Grand  Tour  with  his  '  Gover- 
nor,' did  his  travelling  once  and  for  all.  Now  the  European  '  trip ' 
is  not  a  matter  for  once  in  a  lifetime,  but  for  once  a  year.  In  this 
fever  for  movement  the  rich  lead,  but  the  poor  follow  hard. 
'Cheap  trips'  to  Brighton  and  to  Margate,  and  season  tickets  to 
places  nearer  by,  keep  the  lower  classes  almost  as  much  on  the 
jump  as  Egypt,  India,  and  Japan  do  the  leisured  few — the  dif- 
ference is  merely  in  the  length  of  stride,  not  in  the  essential 
unrest. 

'What  has  your  life  been?'  Vincent  arraigned  his  patient. 
'How  many  years  since  you  were  sixteen  have  you  stayed  in 
any  one  place  ? '  Not  a  twelvemonth,  not  six  months,  spent  in  a 
single  spot. 

'Where  do  you  live?' 

'Why,  in  London — and  at  the  Peterborough  place  in  Devon.' 

'Just  as  if  a  body  could  occupy  two  places  at  once!  That's 
the  heart  of  the  trouble.  You  are  always  pulling  yourself  up 
and  leaving  some  of  your  roots  behind.' 

'Haven't  you  a  place  in  the  country?' 

'Yes,  and  the  minute  I  can  afford  to  stay  there  you  won't 


A  DARK  LANTERN  169 

catch  me  in  London,  let  alone  scouring  the  Continent.  But  you 
You  are  in  Paris  a  month  or  two  out  of  every  twelve.  At  Easter, 
Rome  or  the  Riviera.  August  finds  you  in  Scotland.  Whitsun- 
tide  '  He  motioned  impatiently,  as  if  to  say:  I  can't  follow 

such  a  will-o'-the-wisp.  'And  as  if  that  sort  of  teetotum  arrange- 
ment were  not  enough,  late  years  have  seen  the  development 
of  the  week-end  country-house  visit.  Movement,  movement — 
until  the  only  way  to  save  your  lives  is  to  catch  hold  of  you  and 
clap  you  into  a  Rest  Cure.  But  what  good!  The  minute  you 
are  out ' 

'No,  no;  I've  learnt  a  hard  lesson,'  quoth  Katharine,  smiling 
ruefully. 

1  Not  a  bit  of  it,'  he  growled.  '  Are  you  well  ?  Then  it's :  "  Let 
us  go  to  Monte  Carlo  and  play  ...  to  St.  Moritz  and  skate." 
Are  you  ill? — off  to  Nauheim;  Marienbad.  Any  time,  any 
excuse;  only  let  us  go,  go,  go.  The  very  phrase  for  breakdown 
is  "not  able  to  keep  going  any  longer."  And  the  poor  body' 
— he  had  glanced  at  the  thin  outlines  under  the  rose  coverlid — 
'whose  tap-root  is  in  the  soil,  is  dragged  up  from  its  native  heath 
every  few  weeks,  hauled  about  from  pillar  to  post,  shaken  and 
whirled  in  motor-cars,  jostled  on  the  railway,  tossed  about  on 
the  sea.' 

He  sat  still  and  glowered  while  his  patient  mentally  filled  in 
the  outline.  Even  'at  home'  one's  whole  ill-used  system  was 
kept  a-quiver;  beat  upon  by  fierce  lights;  hourly  jarred  by  the 
postman's  knock — shot  through  and  through  by  electric  currents 
— no  safety  even  behind  the  barrier  of  the  Sea.  Cabled  at, 
telephoned  to,  whirled  through  space,  and  stuck  as  full  of  the 
darts  of  modern  Civilization  as  any  St.  Sebastian  is  with  arrows. 

'And  yet  there  are  many  like  me,'  said  the  low  voice  from  the 
bed,  'quite  ready  to  sit  down  in  some  quiet  country  spot  and 
never  leave  it.' 

'Humph!    How  long  do  you  think  that  mood  would  last? 

anyone  who  has  lived  like  a  Dancing  Dervish!' 


CHAPTER  V 

AT  the  end  of  the  first  week  of  her  incarceration,  Katharine 
was  distinctly  better,  at  the  end  of  the  second,  less  well.  She 
had  her  own  view  of  the  cause. 

'Nurse  Phillips!' 

'Yes.' 

'You  must  tell  Dr.  Vincent  how  bad  this  massage  is  for  me.' 

'Don't  you  think  it's  just  at  first?' 

'No.  I've  tried  it  off  and  on  for  years.  It's  always  so.  You 
can  see  the  ill  effects  for  yourself.'  No  answer.  'Can't  you?' 

'I  can  see  you  seem  very  tired  after  it,'  she  admitted.  'But  I 
suppose  he  has  some  good  reason  for ' 

Good  heaven!  the  woman's  imagination  balked  at  the  bare 
notion  of  anything  of  Vincent's  ordering  not  doing  ultimate 
good. 

'There  can't  be  any  intelligent  reason  for  increasing  my  ner- 
vousness and  my  pain.' 

The  nurse  made  a  little  non-committal  hitch  of  one  shoulder 
and  spread  her  cold  hands. 

Katharine  kept  her  eyes  upon  her.  'You  surely  don't  think 
he  never  makes  a  mistake.' 

'I  suppose  he  does;  but  I've  never  seen  it.' 

'Well,  at  all  events,  you  must  please  tell  him  the  massage  does 
me  no  good,  but  actual  harm.'  As  the  woman  made  no  rejoinder: 
'You  won't  forget?'  ' 

'I'll  tell  him  that  you  say  so.'  While  Katharine  digested  this 
in  silence,  the  nurse  went  on:  'It  won't  be  any  use.  He  will 
only  shrug  his  shoulders,  and  rush  downstairs.'  As  she  saw  her 
patient's  eyes  flash  she  added,  'But  if  you  tell  him — 

Katharine  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  say  that  she  had  tried 

170 


A  DARK  LANTERN  171 

that  and  had  failed.  'Please  remember  not  to  lean  against  the 
bed,'  she  said  wearily.  Nurse  Phillips  went  and  mended  the 
fire.  After  handling  the  dusty  if  not  actually  dirty  shovel  and 
poker,  she  proceeded,  without  washing,  to  put  away  Katharine's 
clean  linen  just  come  from  the  laundry.  As  her  fingers,  purple 
outside,  and  witnessing  to  London  grime  within,  touched  the 
dainty  things — 'Oh,  don't!'  cried  the  patient.  'Do  wait  till 
you've  washed  your  hands.' 

'I  can't  be  always  washing.' 

'No;  I  realize  that.  But  at  least  put  on  gloves  when  you 
attend  to  the  fire.'  The  nurse  sniffed  up  disdain  through  her 
cold  nose.  It  was  the  first  time  there  had  been  anything  resem- 
bling a  passage  of  arms  between  them.  But  the  nurse's  ingrained 
untidiness  troubled  Katharine  unceasingly.  The  patient  had 
had  little  experience  of  the  average  London  woman's  early 
relinquishment  of  the  struggle  against  dirt,  her  acceptance  of 
a  compromise  which  habit  has  brought  her  to  regard  as  cleanli- 
ness. She  forgot  that  it  took  an  army  of  well-trained  people  to 
keep  Peterborough  House  in  its  habitual  condition,  and  that 
this  woman  had  been  brought  up  in  circumstances  where  true 
cleanliness  was  too  expensive  to  be  attained.  Twenty  times  a 
day  the  nurse  did  things  that  Katharine  would  have  dismissed 
any  servant  in  her  employ  for  doing  a  second  time.  And  yet 
she  tried  to  overcome  her  sense  of  discomfort — tried  to  blunt 
her  perception  of  it.  Once,  indeed,  she  did  say  something  about 
it  to  the  masseuse.  Miss  Gillies  had  come  in  promptly  as  usual, 
and  instantly  turned  up  her  sleeves  preparatory  to  washing 
her  hands.  'I  am  not  able  to  have  massage  to-day,'  said 
Katharine. 

'Oh!'  Miss  Gillies  looked  as  disappointed  as  if  the  lost 
benefit  were  her  own.  'Have  just  a  little — arms  and  neck.' 

'No.  I  can't  stand  it  to-day.'  Then  suddenly,  'I  should 
think  you'd  be  delighted.' 

'Why?' 

'To  be  let  off.' 

'Oh,  I  don't  care  to  have  time  left  on  my  hands' — and  she 
asked  professional  questions.  Katharine,  a  little  amused, 
answered  her. 

'Just  let  me  see  if  1  can't  help  that  pain,  will  you?' — and 


i  ;a  A  DARK  LANTERN 

soon  she  was  hammering  away  at  poor  Katharine  quite  in 
the  usual  way.  It  was  that  day  the  sick  woman  confessed 
to  being  tortured  at  the  nurse's  untidy  ways.  Miss  Gillies 
nodded  comprehendingly.  'Londoners  are  usually  durrty,' 
she  agreed.  'And  the  ordinary  English  surrvant!'  She  fell 
to  beating  the  unhappy  patient  as  though  Katharine  were  a 
prime  offender.  'The  average  house  is  filthy,'  she  said,  pausing 
an  instant,  with  her  high  colour  several  shades  higher  still — 
'simply  filthy.  And  if  you  tell  people  that,  they  don't  know 
what  you  mean.  Once  a  year  they  have  what  they  call  their 
spring  cleaning.  Good  heaven!  we  have  it  in  Scotland  once  a 
week.' 

'Don't  come  this  afternoon,  Miss  Gillies,'  said  Katharine 
faintly,  turning  over  after  her  final  punishment.  'I  simply  can- 
not bear  it  twice  to-day.' 

'Has  the  Doctor  said  so?' 

'No;  but  I'll  explain.'  As  Miss  Gillies  shook  her  head:  'You're 
an  odd  woman.  Are  you  honestly  not  glad  sometimes  to  have  a 
holiday  ? ' 

'I  preferr  to  do  my  wurruk,'  she  said  sturdily,  her  burr  coming 
out  stronger  than  usual.  'I  like  to  see  my  patient  getting  on.' 

'Well,  you  needn't  come  any  more  to-day.' 

'I  must  come  unless  I  have  Dr.  Vincent's  orders  not  to.' 

'I'll  tell  him  I  was  too  weak.' 

Miss  Gillies'  face  was  anxious.  'Don't  look  so  cast  down/ 
said  Katharine,  laughing. 

The  Scotswoman  shook  her  tawny  head.  'Wait  till  ye  see 
what  the  Doctor  looks  like.  But  I'll  be  herre  at  fourr,  and  hope 
ye'll  be  betterr.' 

When  Vincent  came,  Katharine  told  him  with  a  light-hearted 
air  that  she  had  urged  Miss  Gillies  to  take  a  holiday. 

'Why?' 

'Because  you  are  going  to  let  me  off  massage,'  Katharine 
smiled  appealingly — then,  seeing  his  face  darken:  'She  wears 
me  out,  Dr.  Vincent.' 

'Tell  her  to  be  more  gentle.' 

'It's  not  a  question  of  gentle  or  rough.  If  I  have  it  at  all, 
I'd  rather  have  it  hard.'  He  had  not  been  in  the  room  thirty 
seconds  but  he  jumped  up,  saying:  'You  can't  do  without  it.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  173 

'Then  once  a  day.' 

'No;  twice' — his  hand  was  on  the  knob. 

'Please,  please  once.' 

'Twice!'  and  he  was  outside. 

She  felt  unequal  for  the  present  to  further  contest  on  the  sub- 
ject. And  besides,  after  all,  she  told  herself,  he  must,  with  his 
wide  experience,  know  better  than  she.  When  she  could  carry 
her  increased  pain  with  help  of  that  conviction,  she/had  already 
travelled  farther  than  she  knew.  But  it  was  true  that  certain 
of  her  old  bad  symptoms  were  gradually  yielding  to  his  treat- 
ment. He  would  make  all  well  before  he  was  done  with  her,  if, 
as  he  himself  had  said,  she  'did  as  she  was  told.' 

The  next  time  he  appeared,  Katharine  knew  he  had  heard 
from  the  nurse  outside  that  the  last  medicine  had  not  had  the 
desired  effect,  and  that  the  patient  grievously  missed  her  morn- 
ing coffee.  Katharine  meant  to  put  in  a  plea  herself  if  the  nurse 
should  have  failed,  but  as  she  watched  him  silently  screwing 
together  the  two  ebony  pieces  of  his  stethoscope,  she  was  struck 
afresh  by  something  in  his  air  to  which  she  could  not  give  a 
name.  It  was  suddenly  as  if  she  had  never  seen  him  before, 
and  just  as  one  looking  on  a  new  face  for  the  first  time  gets  an 
impression  sharper,  and  somehow  different,  from  anything  that 
one  can  commonly  recover  after  custom  has  blurred  the  saliencies 
— just  so  she  had  an  instant's  perception  of  how  he  would  have 
struck  her  had  she  never  seen  him  before.  That's  how  he  seems 
to  people!  she  thought.  It  was  because  I  had  known  him  before, 
that  I  didn't  see  him  so,  that  morning  I  went  to  Cavendish  Square. 

Didn't  see  him  properly  at  all.  But  now Following  out 

her  new  impression:  'Does  that  black  stick  of  yours  help  the 
incantation  ? ' 

'The  what?'  (She  laughed.)  'Nurse!  Bring  me  the  pre- 
scription-book.' 

When  the  woman  had  gone,  'It  isn't  medicine  I  want,'  said 
the  patient. 

'What  do  you  want?'  he  asked,  as  though  he  hadn't  been 
told  outside. 

But  instead  of  saying  coffee,  the  patient  answered:  'Magic.' 

'Whatf 

'Not  medicine,  Magic  is  what  I  need.' 


i74  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Then  you've  come  to  the  wrong  man.' 

She  looked  at  him  curiously:  'I'm  not  so  sure.' 

*  •*  *  *  * 

And  still  from  time  to  time,  as  the  days  went  on,  she  made 
clutches  at  her  old  judicial  frame  of  mind.  She  saw  that  the 
idea  of  Vincent  himself  lending  the  smallest  countenance  to 
any  hocus-pocus,  even  to  a  good  end,  was  unthinkable.  He 
would  have  covered  with  ridicule  the  notion  of  a  doctor's  having 
any  so-called  'occult'  power.  Nevertheless,  she  told  herself 
that  he  had  cultivated  the  legend  of  his  fierceness  and  his  hard- 
ness, so  that  he  might  impose  on  the  imagination  of  patients 
belonging  almost  exclusively  to  the  class  of  the  pampered  and 
the  over-self-indulged — people  who  had  to  be  terrorized  into 
obedience  and  harried  into  health.  She  remembered  the  in- 
stance of  the  great  painter,  Aubrey  Church.  He  had  told  her 
himself,  the  night  after  that  first  talk  with  Blanche  about  Vincent, 
how  he  had  held  out  through  months  of  agony  against  going 
to  the  man,  and  finally  rushed  to  him  one  day,  only  to  stop  on 
the  door-step,  and,  recalling  afresh  stories  he  had  heard  about 
him,  turned  about,  and  went  back  home  with  his  malady,  rather 
than  put  himself  under  such  a  man.  So  the  legend  had  its  un- 
salutary  side.  But  she  could  see  plainly  now,  how  with  many 
it  must  give  him  a  huge  initial  advantage.  She  was  even  con- 
scious how  the  very  thought  of  being  herself  treated  to  the  rough 
side  of  his  tongue  had  kept  her  more  than  once  from  speaking 
her  mind.  She  knew  there  were  certain  limits  beyond  which 
if  he  should  step  she  would  have  to  dismiss  him.  Things  that 
other  women  had  had  to  suffer  at  his  hands  she  would  never 
tolerate.  The  more  important,  therefore,  not  to  cross  him — 
since,  like  those  others  at  'the  Home,'  whose  diet  was  frequently 
humble  pie,  she  had  come  to  feel:  without  his  help,  I  shall  not 
get  well.  And  yet,  careful  as  she  had  been,  he  had  spoken  to 
her  with  what  she  felt  acutely  to  be  an  unnecessary  crudity 
about  certain  details — seeming  almost  (or  did  she  imagine  it?) 
to  take  a  malicious  pleasure  in  calling  this  hitherto  inaccessible 
lady,  down  from  the  clouds,  to  answer  his  blunt  interrogatories. 
It  was  as  if  he  waited  for  her  to  wince  that  he  might  pounce 
upon  her.  It  would  almost  seem  as  if  he  laid  traps  for  weak- 
ness, and  stood  ready  to  jeer  if  she  were  caught. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  175 

One  day,  as  he  was  about  to  test  the  action  of  her  heart,  she, 
upon  a  quickly  repented  impulse,  held  the  coverlid  tight  across 
her  breast  a  moment,  and  as  he  pulled  it  away  impatiently, 
she  turned  her  head  aside  with  an  involuntary  long  breath. 

'What  are  you  sighing  about?'  he  said  roughly,  as  he  turned 
the  coverlid  down  and  gleamed  at  her  between  half-shut,  moody 
eyes. 

'I'm  not  sighing,'  she  said,  with  more  fortitude  than  truth; 
and  she  knew  he  was  disappointed  that  she  gave  him  no  chance 
to  say  to  her,  as  he  had  said  to  a  woman  who  had  made  a  pro- 
tracted struggle  under  similar  circumstances:  'I  knew  you  had 
a  feeble  body,  but  I  had  no  idea  you  were  feeble-minded  too. 
You  evidently  can't  imagine  how  absolutely  uninteresting  these 
matters  of  routine  are  to  a  doctor.'  And,  indeed,  to  do  him 
justice,  he  seemed  to  try  to  convey  this  indifference  in  time  to 
save  his  patients  from  error.  Never  could  disembodied  spirit 
have  brought  less  of  the  flesh  to  the  discharge  of  duty  than  did 
Garth  Vincent.  It  was  the  more  credit  since  he  was  intensely 
man.  But  in  his  work,  the  keen,  untender  eyes  were  all  for 
symptoms;  the  fine  brown  hands  touched  warm  flesh  as  coolly 
as  they  would  have  pressed  a  rubber  water-bottle. 

'Do  you  go  into  every  sick-room  looking  as  if  you'd  rather 
murder  than  cure  the  patient?'  Katharine  asked  him  one  day. 

He  grinned  with  the  momentary  satisfaction  of  one  who  sees 
himself  appreciated.  'If  I  had  my  way,'  he  said,  'I'd  give  sick 
people  a  certain  time  to  get  well  in — if  they  didn't  do  it,  I'd  have 
them  strangled.' 

'Oh  no,  you'd  strangle  them  yourself.  You'd  like  that  part 
of  it.' 

He  nodded  amiably.  'I'd  begin  with  the  babies.  I  wouldn't 
give  the  weak  ones  a  chance  to  grow  up  and  cumber  the  earth.' 

Katharine  remembered  the  little  invalid  brother,  and  felt 
sure  he  did  not  guess  that  she  had  heard  of  his  existence — or 
of  the  bond  of  kindness  said  to  exist  between  the  two.  'After 
all,  you're  not  a  Hercules  yourself,'  she  said  aloud,  recalling 
things  the  nurses  had  said  about  his  overworking  and  his  head- 
aches. 

'No,'  he  retorted.  'I  ought  to  have  been  choked  in  my 
cradle.' 


176  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'I'm  very  glad  you  weren't,'  she  said  quickly.  His  half-shut 
eyes  seemed  to  search  the  wall  for  Anton.  Katharine  felt  a 
renewed  impatience  with  the  picture.  Why  did  he  seem  to 
notice  it  so  often?  Or  did  she  only  imagine  that  he  did?  No, 
she  felt  that  he  realized  now,  how  little  she  liked  to  be  reminded 
of  it — perhaps  even  knew  she  forebore  to  send  it  away  only  be- 
cause that  would  be  to  emphasize  its  having  been  there. 
*  *  *  *•  * 

Although  she  could  not  move  Vincent  on  the  subject  of  massage, 
she  did  by  degrees  regulate  Miss  Gillies — though  it  was  not  alto- 
gether easy.  Fortunately,  the  masseuse  was  an  intelligent  woman, 
though  her  interests  were  not  varied.  They  closely  skirted 
her  profession,  and  by  degrees  it  was  apparent  to  Katharine's 
clear  sight,  that  they  centred  in  Garth  Vincent.  Not,  it  would 
seem,  in  any  sentimental  fashion,  but  as  a  study  and  a  standard. 
This  fact  was  brought  to  the  surface  by  Katharine's  criticism 
of  him.  Indeed,  Miss  Dereham  was  learning  far  more  of  her 
medical  attendant  than  most  of  his  patients  did,  and  from  two 
aspects  of  one  fact:  her  vague  unformulated  fear  of  falling  under 
his  influence,  and  her  perfectly  conscious  shrinking  from  even 
seeming  to  do  so  in  the  eyes  of  the  nurses.  The  insistence  of 
this  double  motive  made  her  affect  a  lack  of  faith  she  was  daily 
farther  from  feeling.  Her  deliberate  expression  of  incredulity 
and  dissatisfaction,  not  only  brought  out  the  loyalty  of  Vincent's 
subordinates,  but  gave  their  enthusiastic  defence  of  him,  an 
air  of  professionalism  that  they  could  feel  cloaked  the  strong 
personal  element.  And  so,  as  the  days  went  on,  these  women, 
shut  up  there  together,  played  at  a  kind  of  intellectual  hide- 
and-seek.  Katharine,  under  cover  of  criticism,  more  and  more 
prompting  them  to  stories  of  his  miraculous  cures — his  blunt 
and,  to  their  sense,  clever  sayings;  the  nurses  firing  their  own 
hearts,  while  they  could  honestly  think  they  were  only  inspiring 
the  patient's  with  a  salutary  confidence.  Very  adroit  Miss 
Dereham  became  in  drawing  the  women  out — guiding  them 
from  any  point  of  the  compass  to  the  one  topic  they  handled 
with  a  depth  of  feeling  they  strove  in  vain  to  hide,  and  an  elo- 
quence they  did  not  guess. 

Having  discovered  in  the  pretty  little  night-nurse  that  same 
combination  of  fear,  and  worship  of  Vincent,  that  Katharine 


A  DARK  LANTERN  177 

had   so   quickly   detected   under   Nurse   Phillips'    dryness — she 
said  to  the  masseuse  one  day: 

'It  is  really  comic  to  see  the  state  of  awe  these  nurses  are  in. 
I  asked  the  little  young  one  last  night  to  go  and  cut  out  the 
Honours  list  from  the  morning's  Times  and  bring  it  in  to  me. 
He  lets  me  read,  you  know.' 

'But  not  daily  papers.' 

'No.     The  Honours  list  isn't  the  daily  paper.' 

'It  is  news.' 

'Oh,  the  very  mildest  form  of  entertainment.  But  she  flatly 
refused.' 

'Of  course.' 

'It  wasn't  of  course  at  all.  You're  not  so  hopelessly  under 
the  spell;  you'll  get  a  yesterday's  paper  for  me.' 

Miss  Gillies  shook  her  head.  'Oh,  if  you  are  afraid  to,  I'll 
promise  you  Vincent  shall  not  know.' 

'I  couldn't,  really.' 

Katharine  spent  ten  minutes  in  trying  to  break  down  the 
woman's  resolution.  Something  of  Vincent  seemed  to  have 
entered  into  her.  Katharine  might  as  well  have  talked  to  the 
bed-post.  But  the  big  brawny  Highlander  talked  readily  enough 
of  his  Honours,  though  they  were  not  listed.  This  and  that 
hopeless  case  he  had  brought  round.  How  just  in  the  past 
two  years  his  practice  had  grown  so  enormous,  that  he  was  in 
danger  of  breaking  down  his  own  health  in  carrying  it;  how 
he  had  now  to  charge,  besides  his  invariable  big  fee,  a  guinea 
a  mile  extra  if  he  went  outside  a  certain  small  radius;  how  she 
had  just  come  from  a  patient  he  had  visited  that  very  day  at 
two  o'clock — and  that  patient  was  a  person  of  discernment  and 
some  humanity.  She  had  said  to  him:  'You  don't  look  well.' 
'Oh,  I'm  well  enough — I  haven't  had  luncheon.'  'Why  not?' 
'Hadn't  time  to-day,'  he  said. 

'That's  simply  silly  of  him,'  contributed  Katharine.  The 
heavy  face  of  the  woman  lightened  with  a  sudden  quick  gentle- 
ness. 

'They  call  him  hard.     And  nobody  denies  his  manners  are 
atrocious.     I've  heard  people  say  he  is  cruel.     The  fact  is,  he 
neglects  himself  rather  than  them.' 
As  she  was  going  out  that  evening  Katharine  called  after 

12 


i78  A  DARK  LANTERN 

her:  'I  know  why  you  none  of  you  dare  let  me  see  the  Honours 
list.  They've  given  Vincent  a  knighthood,  and  you're  all  so 
silly  about  him,  you're  afraid  I  couldn't  refrain  from  congratu- 
lating him,  too.'  The  Scotchwoman  laughed.  'No,  he  isn't 
Sir  Garth  yet — and  he  may  never  be,  he  makes  too  many  enemies. 
But  they  can't  prevent  him,  all  the  same,  from  being  the  Great 
Doctor  Vincent  I1  She  nodded  and  went  out. 

To  the  pink-cheeked  night-nurse,  Katharine  that  same  evening, 
spoke  of  the  girl's  home,  'far  away  in  Wales.' 

'I  was  once  among  those  mountains — it's  a  lovely  country,' 
said  the  patient,  with  the  impulse  to  bring  the  place  nearer  to 
the  girl's  homesick  sense.  'Oh,  you  know  it?'  and  she  beamed. 
'Have  you  seen  Marion  Tregethan's  pictures  of  it?' 

'No.' 

'No?  She  is  very  famous.  She  had  a  picture  in  the  Academy 
two  years  ago.  Miss  Tregethan  is  a  near  neighbour  of  ours, 
she  said  with  innocent  pride.  'But  she  has  been  so  ill.' 

'What  has  been  the  matter?' 

'Well,  one  doctor  said  one  thing  and  one  another.' 

'What  did  Vincent  say?' 

'I  begged  her  for  months  to  go  and  consult  him.  But  she 
had  just  had  to  settle  some  awful  debt  of  her  brother's — and 
she  supports  her  mother,  you  see.  She  felt  she  couldn't  afford 
to  pay  a  great  specialist's  fee.  One  day  I — I  was  so  unhappy 
about  her,  I  thought  she  was  dying,  and  I  just  went  to  see  Dr. 
Vincent.'  She  stopped  breathless,  as  if  she  expected  demon- 
strations of  astonishment  from  the  patient.  'I  told  him  about 
her.' 

'Well?' 

'  He  said  he  couldn't  possibly  advise  without  seeing  her.  "  Send 
her  here,"  he  said.  I  explained  that  she  wasn't  well  off,  and 

that  she  worked  for  a  living,  and  how  clever  she  was,  and  how 

He  cut  me  short:  "Send  her  along."  I  thought,  so  did  she,  that 
he  meant  to  make  a  reduction  in  his  charges.  He  treated  her 
for  months,  and  cured  her,  and  wouldn't  let  her  pay  a  penny. 
Oh,  he  is  good,  in  spite  of  all  they  say.  Just  let  them  ask  Marion 
Tregethan  I'  Suddenly  she  lowered  her  voice  from  its  note  of 
triumphant  admiration  to  something  close  on  reverence.  '  Marion 


A  DARK  LANTERN  179 

has  seen  him  with  his  little  step-brother,'  she  said,  almost  under 
her  breath.  'One  day  she  had  waited  so  long  to  see  the  doctor 
— the  room  was  crowded,  and  it  was  quite  the  end  of  the  morn- 
ing— after  one  o'clock,  and  the  hours  of  consultation  were  over. 
So  poor  Marion  put  on  her  things  and  was  going  home.  But 
in  the  hall  she  fainted.  The  servant  called  Dr.  Vincent,  and 
he  brought  her  round.  But  he  wouldn't  let  her  go  away — made 
her  have  some  luncheon.  "My  brother  is  here  to-day,"  he  said. 
"We  are  going  to  the  country  together  this  afternoon."  And 
Marion  found  in  the  dining-room,  when  she  went  back,  an  in- 
valid-chair, with  a  boy  lying  in  it,  looking  about  seven;  but  he's 
ten  or  eleven.  And — to  see  Dr.  Vincent  with  that  boy — well, 
Marion  cried  when  she  told  me  about  it,  so  I  suppose  that's  why 
I'm  so  silly  now,'  she  said,  brushing  her  hand  across  her  pretty 
eyes. 

'  Doesn't  the  invalid  brother  live  with  him  ? ' 

'No,  he  wants  to — but  his  mother  won't  let  him.  Dr.  Vin- 
cent doesn't  want  her,  they  say — but  he  cares  about  that  boy 
— oh,  he  cares!  She  was  his  father's  second  wife,  and  she  isn't 
friends  with  her  stepson — awfully  jealous  of  the  way  her  boy 
worships  him.  Dr.  Vincent  has  done  everything  for  them.  They 
have  very  little  but  what  he  gives  them.  They  used  to  live  all 
together,  but  Dr.  Vincent  would  rather  be  alone.  He's  all  by 
himself  in  that  big  house.' 

'No  doubt  he  has  plenty  of  friends.' 

'No,  Marion  Tregethan  says  there  isn't  a  lonelier  man  in  Eng- 
land.' 

*  #  *  *  * 

He  came  in  one  stormy  night  at  six,  and  sat  down  heavily — 
in  the  chair  this  time.  It  was  a  sign  he  might  not  hurry  away 
so  soon,  and  Katharine's  spirit  rose. 

She  had  learned  now  that  if  she  talked  of  her  pain,  or  indeed 
of  herself  at  all,  he  would  get  up  and  march  out.  For  the  last 
two  visits  she  had  said  nothing  of  symptoms,  leaving  him  to  learn 
what  he  might  from  nurse  and  chart.  But  to-night:  'How  did 
you  sleep  last  night?'  he  said. 

'Well.' 

'H'm!    It's  more  than  I  did.' 

'What  kept  you  awake?'    He  shook  his  head,  and  picked 


i8o  A  DARK  LANTERN 

up  a  long  chain  of  hers  lying  on  the  table  by  the  bed — a  little 
enamelled  reliquary  was  attached.  He  laid  the  heart-shaped 
box  in  the  middle  of  the  chart  as  he  said:  'I  often  don't  sleep, 
when  there's  a  case  that  isn't  going  right.' 

'  Have  you  such  a  case  now  ? ' 

He  seemed  to  ward  off  any  slightest  danger  of  a  professional 
confidence — 'and  like  everybody  else  I  sometimes  lie  awake  just 
because  I'm  miserable.' 

'Miserable?     You?' 

'Yes,  of  course.  Everybody  has  his  hour,  from  time  to  time. 
Mine  comes  pretty  often.' 

'It  ought  not.' 

'Why  not?' 

'Because  you  have  the  two  best  things  that  can  fall  to  the  lot 
of  man.' 

'What  are  they?* 

'Work  that  you  love,  and  people  who  pin  their  faith  to  it.' 

'That  never  made  anybody  happy.'  He  was  winding  the 
long  jewelled  chain  in  circles,  round  the  reliquary,  as  it  lay  in 
the  middle  of  the  chart.  His  head  was  bent,  his  look  intent 
on  the  pattern  he  was  making;  all  about  the  man  an  unusual 
quiet,  almost  absent-mindedness.  Katharine  held  her  breath 
as  one  might,  seeing  a  sleep-walker  passing  unaware  through 
peril.  Controlling  her  voice  to  a  low,  steady  cadence,  she  said 
quietly:  'What  does  make  people  happy?'  And  still  staring 
at  the  gleaming  chain,  'Love,'  he  answered.  She  lay  very  still. 
She  had  heard  the  word  from  the  lips  of  a  good  many  men,  but 
she  had  never  heard  it  with  that  accent.  No  gentleness  in  it 
— no  shred  of  tenderness,  personal  or  impersonal,  was  left  about 
the  vexed  and  ill-used  word.  It  came  out  naked,  bare,  bleed- 
ing, like  a  new-born  child  with  a  cry — but  far  enough  from  a 
wail,  for  he  had  brought  the  single  syllable  out  on  a  note  of  low 
defiance,  as  one  speaks  the  name  of  one's  enemy  as  well  as  one's 
desire.  It  struck  Katharine  that  'Love'  should  always  be  said 
just  so.  It  had  thrilled  her  like  the  finale  of  some  great  tragic 
poem.  And  he  was  like  that,  after  all — this  man. 

Hard  upon  the  heels  of  the  thought  came  a  quick  revulsion. 
He  was  trying  her.  Just  as  he  had  tried  her  endurance  of  bodily 
pain,  he  was  putting  her  sore  heart  to  the  proof.  Was  he  think- 


A  DARK  LANTERN  181 

ing  of  the  German  officer  above  the  fire?  Whether  it  was  an 
ancient  grudge  against  her,  or  a  newer  grievance  against  all 
the  tribe  of  ailing  nervous  women,  or  pure  insensibility,  it  was 
certain  he  was  constantly  testing  her  against  the  cold  steel  edge 
of  his  own  strange  character.  The  remembrance  braced  her. 
'Why,'  she  said  quietly,  'you  are  more  sentimental  than  I.' 

'That's  not  sentimentality,'  he  said  doggedly,  'that's  nature.' 
And  she  felt  rebuked.  He  had  the  advantage  that  truth  may 
be  trusted  to  confer. 

An  angry  dissatisfaction  with  herself  seized  her,  as  he  straight- 
ened up  and  laid  her  chain  back  upon  the  table.  Hitting  on 
the  first  thing  she  could  think  of  to  detain  him:  'One  moment 
before  you  go.  I've  given  this  massage  a  fair  trial,  and  it  has 
done  me  downright  harm.'  He  frowned.  But  before  he  could 
answer:  'Look  here,'  she  appealed  to  him,  'I've  done  everything 
— but  everything  you've  advised ' 

'  What  else  are  you  here  for  ? '  he  threw  in. 

'I  deserve  that  you  should  treat  me  like  a  reasonable  being.' 
Now,  as  ever,  when  she  talked  to  him,  he  kept  his  eyes  religiously 
away  from  her  face — if  they  were  anywhere  but  smouldering 
under  the  half-closed  lids,  they  rested  on  the  features  of  Prince 
Anton.  'I  don't  want — I  should  hate  to  go  contrary  to  your 
advice ' 

'You  have  only,'  he  interrupted  roughly,  'yourself  to  please 
about  that.  I  don't  imagine  it  matters  particularly  to  anybody 
else.'  It  was  very  brutal;  it  was  so  nearly  true.  What  great 
difference  did  she  make  in  the  world  to  any  human  soul?  If 
she  had  been  ignorant  before  of  the  fact  of  her  little  actual  ac- 
count in  the  scheme  of  things,  these  weeks  of  death  in  life  would 
have  demonstrated  how  little  evil  would  be  wrought  in  any  life 
should  she  go  out  of  the  Saga.  Even  Lord  Peterborough  had 
done  well  enough  without  her — she  was  convinced  of  that,  since 
he  had  never  made  a  sign.  But  penetrated  as  she  was  by  sud- 
den pain  at  his  words,  she  did  Garth  Vincent  justice  in  her  heart. 
He  had  said  that  only  because  he  had  been  betrayed  into  a 
moment's  confidence  a  little  while  before — confidence  which  she 
had  met  so  ill.  It  was  on  his  part  a  movement  to  redress  the 
balance.  She  had  deserved  what  she  got. 

'But  the  fact  about  Miss  Gillies  is,'  Katharine  went  on  cour- 


i82  A  DARK  LANTERN 

ageously,  'that  good  masseuse  as  she  is,  I  should  be  better  with- 
out her.' 

'It's  damned  nonsense!'  he  said,  jumping  up  and  going  to 
the  fire,  where  he  stood  apparently  scowling  frightfully  at  Prince 
Anton.  '"Better  without"!'  he  echoed.  'Maybe  you  think 
you'd  be  better  without  me,'  and  he  wheeled  suddenly  round. 

'Oh  no,'  responded  the  patient  faintly. 

'There's  no  use  in  my  wasting  my  time  here,'  he  made  for 
the  door,  'if  you're  going  to  treat  yourself.' 

'No,  no,'  said  Katharine,  half  rising  in  her  bed.  The  threat 
of  being  given  up  by  him — why  did  it  suddenly  seem  the  last 
irretrievable  disaster?  She  did  not  know  why — but  she  was  at 
the  mercy  of  the  feeling.  'I  was  only  joking,'  she  called  out 
as  he  reached  the  door. 

'I'm  glad  to  find  you  so  cheerful,'  he  said  in  his  most  dour 
fashion. 

He  passed  Miss  Gillies  on  the  stair.  She  came  in  with  a  brisk 
'  Good-evening '  and  set  to  work. 


CHAPTER  VI 

As  slowly  Katharine  began  to  adjust  her  mind  to  the  new 
order — this  being  dependent  for  everything,  from  creature  com- 
forts to  high  courage,  upon  a  person  who  never  spared  her  feel- 
ings, and  yet  in  some  way  conveyed  to  her  that  he  was  her  friend 
— she  found  herself  more  and  more  occupied,  absorbed  by  the 
strange  character  of  the  man.  What  had  made  him  like  this? 
She  knew  as  well  as  if  she  had  lived  these  years  at  his  side,  that 
he  had  suffered.  Partly,  no  doubt,  for  his  own  sins,  but  very 
much,  she  was  convinced,  for  those  of  others.  Life  had  used 
him  hardly.  The  Welsh  girl  he  had  befriended  had  said  'there 
is  no  lonelier  man.'  And  all  these  gossiping  subordinates  of 
his  had  said  that  it  was  true.  Lonely!  In  London.  At  the 
very  zenith  of  a  brilliant  career.  Lonely!  Why  was  anyone 
lonely?  Because  one  could  not  accept  life's  second  best.  She 
herself  had  been  lonely  in  that  cause.  But,  after  all,  women 
were  known  both  to  need  companionship  more  and  to  be  more 
fastidious  about  it.  There  were  men,  of  course,  who  were  by 
nature  celibate.  That  was  not  Garth  Vincent's  case.  No  ob- 
server could  be  in  an  instant's  doubt  on  that  subject.  But  men 
the  reverse  of  ascetic,  the  most  self-indulgent,  they,  too,  remained 
unmarried.  No  foolish  lifelong  search  after  perfection  kept 
them  lonely.  They  were  pleased  only  too  readily  and  too  widely. 
But  what  was  the  truth  about  such  people? 

A  short-sighted  self-indulgence  blinded  them  to  the  fact  that 
to  avoid  the  closer  tie,  to  avoid  responsibility,  is  to  lose  the  finer 
essence  of  human  companionship.  You  cannot  get  the  sweet 
alone  of  anything  in  this  life,  and  at  the  same  time  get  the  best. 
Even  the  grosser  souls  realize,  in  the  end,  they  have  let  the  best 
go  by,  though  they  do  not  know  at  which  of  life's  turnings  they 

183 


184  A  DARK  LANTERN 

have  missed  it.  If  you  will  have  only  the  gaiety,  the  youth  ever 
renewed,  of  changing  relations,  you  will  find  yourself  in  the  middle 
years  without  those  assurances  and  sanctities  that  are  born  of 
faithful  living  through  days  evil  as  well  as  good,  beside  some  crea- 
ture you  have  not  only  enjoyed,  but  suffered  with  and  carried 
burdens  for.  Something  of  this,  she  felt,  Garth  Vincent  realized. 
And  therefore  was  he  alone.  People  criticised  his  manners. 
But  after  all — she  smiled  a  little  as  the  thought  came  to  her — 
their  manners  seemed  not  too  well  to  please  him.  He  preferred 
his  loneliness. 

***** 

One  morning  when  the  patient  took  the  clinical  thermometer 
out  of  her  mouth,  instead  of  returning  it  at  once  to  the  nurse, 
she  held  it  a  moment,  trying  to  read  the  registration.  Nurse 
Phillips  seized  it,  quite  in  Vincent's  own  style,  and  saying,  'The 
Doctor  doesn't  allow  the  patient  to  do  that,'  she  walked  off 
towards  the  washstand.  She  stood  there  as  usual,  pouring 
cold  water  over  the  thermometer,  wiped  it,  and  snapped  it  in  its 
pencil-like  case.  'When  do  you  really  wash  it?'  demanded 
Katharine.  , 

'Wash  it?    I  did  so  just  now.' 

'You  poured  a  little  cold  water  over  it.  When  do  you  dis- 
infect it?'  The  nurse  stared.  'Surely,'  Katharine  went  on, 

'you  realize  that  a  thing  that  has  been  in  the  mouth  needs ' 

She  broke  off — it  was  too  absurd,  telling  this  trained  nurse  a 
commonplace  like  that.  'I  suppose  you  keep  an  antiseptic  wash 
of  some  sort  outside  ? ' 

'I  don't  know  what  you  think  I  want  an  antiseptic  for,  in  your 
case,'  replied  Nurse  Phillips  loftily. 

'I  have  no  idea  what  the  custom  is  in  English  hospitals;  but 
foreign  nurses  don't  shut  up  their  clinical  thermometers  in  cases 
without  disinfecting  them.' 

'Oh,  don't  they?' 

'No,  the  thermometer  lies  in  a  bowl  of  carbolized  water,  and 
before  it  is  taken  out  it  is  washed  off  with  a  bit  of  antiseptic 
cotton.' 

'That's  in  bad  cases,  I  suppose?' 

The  depth  of  her  ignorance  lay  revealed.  She  had  as  little 
idea  of  the  meaning  of  aseptic  as  any  scullion. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  185 

'In  England,'  Nurse  Phillips  was  saying  with  complacent 
finality,  'we  pour  clean  water  over  them  and  wipe  them.' 

'In  the  nursing  home,  when  you  have  two  patients  to  look 
after,  do  you  use  the  same  thermometer  for  both?' 

'Yes,'  answered  the  woman  brusquely. 

'And  you  wash  them  so,  only  with  cold  water?' 

'We  don't  take  contagious  diseases  in  the  nursing  home.' 

Katharine  began  to  watch  her  now,  whatever  she  did,  with 
a  nervous  dread  of  detecting  her  in  further  enormities. 

One  of  the  medicines  was  a  sticky  compound.  After  taking 
it  that  evening,  Katharine  watched  as  she  had  never  done  be- 
fore the  fate  of  the  medicine  glass.  The  washstand  was  nearly 
hidden  by  a  great  Spanish  leather  screen.  The  patient  had  to 
sit  up  and  crane  her  neck  to  keep  the  blue-gowned  figure  within 
range  of  vision.  To-night,  for  the  first  time,  she  did  so.  Saw 
how  a  little  water  was  poured  into  the  glass  and  then  emptied 
out,  saw  the  medicine  still  showing  red  and  sticky.  More  water, 
and  oh,  horror!  the  nurse  put  two  of  her  purple  fingers  into  the 
glass  and  rubbed  them  round.  Out  with  the  ensanguined  fluid, 
and  in  the  act  of  wiping  the  glass,  arrested  by  a  voice  from  the 
bed. 

'Surely  you  will  at  least  rinse  it  first.' 

The  nurse  never  even  turned  round.     'I  have.' 

'Not  since  you  had  your  fingers  in  the  glass.' 

'My  fingers  are  clean.' 

***** 

'Well,  how's  this  patient  to-day?' 

'I  am  very  miserable.' 

'Of  course  you  are — a  miserable  sinner.' 

'The  old  pain  came  back  in  the  night.     I  can't  stand  it.' 

'Think  you  can't,  eh?'  He  rubbed  his  hands  cheerfully. 
It  was  a  bitter  day,  but  to  Katharine  his  action  had  had  an  air 
of  fiendish  satisfaction. 

'You  must  give  me  something,'  she  said  with  an  accent  of 
authority. 

'I  see.  Because  you  haven't  got  any  will-power  I  must  further 
weaken  you  with  drugs.' 

'I  have  a  great  deal  of  will-power — but  the  after-effects  of 
such  pain  as  this  are  very  bad.' 


i86  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'They're  nothing  to  the  after-effects  of  narcotics/'  She  re- 
membered a  good  illustration  of  the  truth  of  that  and  fell  silent. 

'You  must  learn  a  little  self-control — it's  part  of  the  cure.' 

'But  really  I  can't  stand 

'By  God!'  he  said  in  the  casual  way  in  which  he  often  in- 
voked the  Deity.  'It's  curious  what  a  lot  more  we  can  all  of 
us  stand  than  we  think  we  can.' 

She  digested  this,  and  seemed  to  abandon  the  first  tack  in 
favour  of  another. 

'I  dislike  to  make  complaints  more  than  you  will  believe, 
but  ...  I  think  you  must  get  me  another  nurse.' 

'Why?' 

'I'd  like  another.' 

'You  want  to  discharge  a  person  without  any  reason?' 

'I'd  stand  a  better  chance  of  getting  well  with  another  nurse, 
which  is  a  pretty  good  reason.'  Then,  as  he  still  wore  that 
immobile  black  mask,  and  she  was  most  unwilling  to  injure  the 
woman  in  his  eyes,  'Put  it  down  to  nerves.  I'd  like  someone 
who  will  show  more  consideration  for  the  patient  and  less  for 

the '  ('doctor'  was  on  her  lip;  she  changed  the  word) — 

'treatment.  She  rubs  it  in  night  and  day.' 

'She  isn't  here  at  night.' 

'Well,  she  rubs  it  in — 

'You  need  it  rubbed  in.  That's  what  she  is  here  for.  Any- 
thing else?'  He  was  probably  quite  shrewd  enough  to  realize 
that  this  couldn't  be  all  Katharine  had  to  complain  of. 

'Well,  she  is  not  very  fastidious.' 

'It's  not  her  business  to  be  fastidious.' 

'Well,  then,'  Katharine  was  goaded  into  saying,  'I'd  like 
someone  who  hasn't  been  trained  on  dirty  paupers.' 

He  walked  quickly  to  the  door,  and  jerked  it  open,  calling 
sharply,  'Nurse.'  Katharine  quaked  as  the  stiff  figure  came  in. 

'Yes,  Dr.  Vincent.' 

'Why  do  you  have  all  these  flowers  here?' 

'I  did  suggest ' 

'Take  them  out.  Keep  the  windows  open  day  and  night. 
Good-bye!'  .  .  .  And  that  was  all  the  good  she  had  done  herself. 
***** 

The  next  time  that  Nurse  Phillips  came  in  with  a  basket  of 


A  DARK  LANTERN  i87 

roses  Katharine  started.  Anton's  roses!  It  was  so;  they  always 
came  on  the  same  day  of  the  week  in  a  curious  basket  that  looked 
as  if  it  were  carved  in  ivory.  And  was  it  Thursday  again  already  ? 
She  realized  she  had  hardly  thought  of  Anton  since  the  last  roses 
came.  Oh,  the  world  was  grown  a  strange  and  shrunken  place 
— narrowed  down  to  these  four  walls.  It  had  been  upon  an 
impulse  almost  guilty  that  she  had  started  at  the  reminder  of 
Prince  Anton. 

'I  have  only  brought  them  in  for  a  moment  for  you  to  see,' 
the  nurse  was  saying,  with  an  air  unusually  conciliatory.  'I 
mustn't  leave  them  after  what  Dr.  Vincent  said  the  last  time.' 

'No,  you  can  have  them  if  you  like,  but  I  don't  want  notes 
or  cards  left  about.'  She  fumbled  feverishly  among  the  cool 
leaves. 

'There  was  no  note.' 

'The  card,  then.' 

The  nurse  had  gone  over  to  mend  the  fire,  and  made  no  re- 
joinder. It  angered  Katharine  to  think  this  woman  should 
see  even  the  name — that  name! — should  see  it  every  week,  be 
that  much  perforce  in  Katharine  Dereham's  confidence,  and 
thinking,  no  doubt,  all  kinds  of  things  that  were  not  true.  '  Was 
there  no  card  with  this?' 

'Yes.' 

'What  was  done  with  it?'  The  woman  hesitated,  caught 
the  glint  in  the  patient's  eye,  and  answered: 

'It  is  in  the  top  drawer  of  the  cabinet  in  the  hall.' 

'Who  put  it  there?' 

'I  did.' 

'What  made  you  put  it  there?' 

'That  is  where  I  put  anything  of  that  kind.' 

'I  left  orders  that  everything  coming  for  me  was  to  be  taken 
to  Lord  Peterborough.'  No  answer.  'What  else  belonging 
to  me  is  out  there  in  the  hall  cabinet  ? ' 

'Only  a  few  cards  and  things.' 

'Telegrams?'  She  writhed  inwardly  under  the  horror  of 
Anton's  possible  outpourings  passing  through  this  nurse's  hands, 
and  left  accessible  to  the  curious  eyes  of  servants.  'Letters? 
Are  there  letters  left  out  there  ?  Why  don't  you  answer  ? ' 

'Dr.  Vincent — .    I  am  not  supposed  to  answer.'    The  re- 


i88  A  DARK  LANTERN 

joinder  came  sulkily,  as  the  nurse  laid  down  the  tongs  and  stood 
up. 

'Will  you  please  go  and  get  me  those  letters  and  things  ?' . 

'I  can't  do  that.' 

'I  don't  mean  to  read  one  of  them.    I  simply  want  them  here.' 

'They  are  quite  safe.     But  I'll  lock  the  drawer,  if  you  like.' 

'  You  have  not  understood.  What  I  am  asking  you  is  to  bring 
the  things  to  me.' 

'  I  must  not  do  that  without  permission.' 

'Whose?' 

'Dr.  Vincent's.' 

Katharine  got  up,  and  went  swiftly,  barefoot,  across  the  floor, 
opened  the  door,  crossed  the  hall,  and  pulled  open  the  top  drawer 
of  an  inlaid  cabinet  that  stood  between  two  windows.  She 
gathered  up  a  double  handful  of  letters,  cards,  and  orange-brown 
telegrams,  glanced  hurriedly  far  back  into  the  deep  drawer  to 
satisfy  herself  that  only  visiting-cards  remained,  then  turned 
with  a  feverish  quickness,  and  flew  along  the  hall  towards  her 
room.  A  man's  voice  down  in  the  hall  below  arrested  her. 
It  sounded  so  exactly  like  Sir  Lawrence  McClintoch's  croak. 
Was  Lord  Peterborough  consulting  him  about  her  after  all? 
Was  that  he  now  coming  up?  She  hurried  on.  At  the  turn  of 
the  corridor  she  glanced  down  over  the  banister  and  saw  Vincent 
half-way  up  the  stairs.  He  was  coming  with  slow  step,  and  deeply 
meditative  air,  most  unlike  himself.  Nor  did  he  either  pause, 
or  hasten,  on  catching  sight  of  the  white  apparition  above.  But 
even  as  it  flew  past  she  saw  how  his  eyes,  wide  for  once  with  sur- 
prise, had  suddenly  taken  on  that  suffused,  bloodshot  look  that 
anger  gave  them. 

'What  are  you  doing  out  here?'  He  overtook  her  at  the 
door. 

'I— I ' 

'Get  back  into  bed.'  He  spoke  very  roughly.  She  retreated 
before  him  breathless.  The  nurse  melted  into  the  hall. 

'What  were  you  doing  out  there?'  He  shut  the  door,  and 
came  across  the  room  with  that  horrible  red  look  in  his  eyes. 

'I  understood,'  said  Katharine,  shaking  with  excitement, 
'that  my  orders  had  been  disobeyed — that  my  letters  and  things 
were  not  in  the  right  hands.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  189 

He  brought  out  an  oath  that  made  Katharine  catch  her  quick- 
coming  breath.  'What  have  you  got  to  do  with  letters  while 
you're  in  my  hands?' 

'I  don't  want  to  read  them,'  she  flung  in. 

'Your  letters  1  damned  nonsense!  Not  in  the  right  hands!' 
He  swore  again.  'You're  not  in  the  right  hands!  Send  for 

somebody  else!    I've  got  no  time  to '     He  turned  like  one 

bent  blindly  on  rushing  away — had  an  air  of  thinking  the  door 
was  where  the  open  fire  burned  so  bright — brought  up  suddenly 
there  before  it,  and  stood  glaring,  his  back  turned  squarely  on 
his  patient. 

In  a  flash  Katharine  was  out  of  bed,  slid  her  feet  into  slippers, 
went  over  to  where  he  stood,  thrust  two  thin  white  hands  between 
him  and  the  blaze,  and  let  a  shower  of  notes,  cards,  telegrams, 
fall  down  upon  the  coals. 

'They  are  all  there,'  she  said,  without  looking  up,  and  seemed 
to  wait  an  instant,  like  a  penitent  child,  in  her  long  white  gown. 
Then,  as  Vincent  made  no  sign  nor  motion,  she  turned  away. 
When  he  did  look  round  she  was  in  bed  again. 

He  walked  to  the  door  without  a  word,  without  even  raising 
his  eyes.  Katharine  said  to  herself:  'He's  going!  He's  leaving 
me! — what  shall  I  do — what  shall  I  do?' 

'Nurse,'  he  called  sharply,  as  he  shut  the  door.  He  stood, 
a  second  or  two,  in  the  hall  giving  his  directions,  and  then — — 
Yes,  he  was  running  downstairs.  Would  he  ever  come  back? 
Oh  yes,  or  else  he  would  have  said.  What  a  hurry  he  was  always 
in  to  get  away!  Was  there  any  sick-room  where  he  lingered? 
Ah  no.  If  Garth  Vincent  stayed  long  anywhere,  it  must  be  in 
some  happy  house  where  Health  abode. 

Nurse  Phillips  went  out  of  the  room  as  usual  upon  Miss 
Gillies'  appearance  the  next  morning,  and  when  Katharine 
opened  her  eyes,  after  trying  to  sleep,  for  the  hour  of  darkened 
chamber  that  always  followed  massage — she  found  a  strange 
young  woman  pulling  up  the  shades. 

'Good-morning.  I  am  to  be  your  nurse,'  she  said,  smiling 
over  her  shoulder. 

'  Oh !    Where  is  Nurse  Phillips  ? ' 

'She  has  gone.' 

Something  in  the  fresh,  alert  face  that  was  as  professional  as 


190 


A  DARK  LANTERN 


Nurse  Phillips'  own,  and  yet  far  from  unpleasing,  made  Katharine 
feel  it  well  to  abstain  from  questions.  But  she  recognised  Vin- 
cent's hand. 

It  had  not  taken  long,  when  he  had  once  made  up  his  mind. 
***** 

The  next  day,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  before  he  was  due : 

'Put  that  chair  closer,  please,'  said  the  patient  to  the  new 
nurse — 'then  perhaps  he  will  sit  in  it.' 

'Oh,  he  always  sits  on  their  beds.' 

Their  beds?    Let  him.     But  on  my  bed ! 

'He  does  not  "always"  do  so  here,'  the  patient  said  aloud, 
'  and  I  do  not  despair  of  seeing  that  he  has  learned  better  manners.' 

The  nurse  laughed  softly. 

'I  suppose,'  pursued  Katharine,  'you  have  heard  his  patients 
say  that  before.' 

'Oh  yes,  they  all  complain  of  his  manners — at  first.  But 
he's  too  busy,  I  suppose,  to ' 

'Other  doctors,'  Katharine  began,  with  a  vision  of  the  charm- 
ing grace  of  her  Italian  medico,  the  irreproachable  manners  of 
her  Paris  doctor — the  soothing  gentleness  of  Sir  Lawrence 
McClintoch — and  with  less  enthusiasm  she  thought  of  the 
cat-like  step  and  honeyed  solicitude  of  Dr.  Traine.  It  was  a 
universally  accepted  axiom  that  doctors  should  be  reassuring, 
sympathetic — not  come  in  like  a  breath  of  east  wind,  glower  at 
you  as  if  you  were  a  naughty  child,  and — she  recalled  other 
'ways'  of  Vincent's  that  made  her  flush — she  hoped  with  anger. 
'Other  doctors  aren't  too  busy  to  behave.  Quite  as  great  men  as 
Garth  Vincent ' 

'But  you  don't  go  to  them,'  said  the  nurse,  alert. 

'I  have.' 

'Ah!  you've  tried  them!'  The  inference  was  unanswerable. 
'Sister  Morton — she's  at  the  Nursing  Home,  you  know — she 
says  he  has  a  great  horror  of  "the  good  bedside  manner."' 

'That's  quite  unnecessary,'  said  Miss  Dereham  with  emphasis. 
***** 

Two  minutes  later,  while  Nurse  Lynn  was  gone  downstairs 
to  telephone  to  the  chemist,  Natalie  slipped  noiselessly  into  her 
mistress's  room,  finger  on  lip,  laid  a  letter  on  the  bed,  and  stole 
away  without  a  word.  Katharine  recognised  Anton's  writing, 


A  DARK  LANTERN  191 

and  before  she  had  time  to  think,  she  had  torn  the  envelope 
open  and  read:  'Margaretha  is  dead — yet  how  shall  I  weep  at 
what  breaks  down  the  barrier  between  you  and  me?  For  God's 
sake  send  me  a  sign. — ANTON.' 

But  she  saw  clear  at  last.  It  meant  no  more  than  that  he 
hoped  she  finally  would  yield.  And  if  it  did  mean  more  ...  It 
was  not  merely  Anton's  wife — it  was  Anton  himself  who  was 
dead.  Even  as  she  folded  up  the  letter  she  saw  not  the  German 
soldier  in  her  mind's  eye,  but  a  very  different  apparition.  The 
whole  room — all  of  life,  was  dominated  by  a  forbidding  and  all 
ungracious  figure,  which  yet  to  her  brought  an  influence  of  con- 
fidence and  safety. 

Natalie  had  been  leaning  over  the  banisters  listening  to  the 
new  nurse's  strenuous  endeavour  to  put  herself  in  communica- 
tion with  the  chemist.  Natalie  knew  the  facilities  offered  by 
the  London  telephone  system,  and  felt  safe.  She  put  her  head 
in  at  Katharine's  door  with  an  engaging  smile.  But  the  most 
indulgent  of  mistresses  regarded  her  with  a  look  most  strangely 
stern.  'Don't  you  know  that  Dr.  Vincent  doesn't  wish  me  to 
receive  letters?' 

'Oui,  mademoiselle,'  said  the  maid,  'mais  cette  lettre  la — 

'Is  just  the  same  as  any  other  letter.  And  all  are  for- 
bidden. There  is  no  answer.'  Natalie  withdrew  abashed,  but 
instantly  her  head  reappeared.  'Vous  n'en  direz  rien  a  M.  le 
Docteur  ? ' 

Under  the  coverlid  Katharine  smiled.  What  had  been  going 
on  downstairs,  that  Natalie,  who  feared  nor  God  nor  devil, 
should  be  so  anxious  Vincent  should  not  learn  of  her  errand  to 
Miss  Dereham's  door? 

'I'd  be  very  sorry,'  said  that  lady,  'to  have  him  hear  that  his 
orders  had  been  set  at  defiance.' 

'Oui,  mademoiselle,'  said  the  Frenchwoman  with  unnatural 
meekness,  and  discreetly  withdrew. 

Still,  so  mechanically  may  an  old  infatuation  work,  that  in 
one  side  of  her  brain  Katharine  could  lend  herself  to  the  idea 
that  she  was  thrilled  at  the  news  of  the  death  of  her  rival,  that 
she  waited  with  excitement  to  hear  'what  next,'  even  imagined 
Anton  coming  over  incognito  to  see  her.  She  stirred  uneasily 
at  the  supposition.  He  might  think  he  could  win  over  Lord 


i92  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Peterborough — might  insist  on  seeing  her — might  even  encounter 
Vincent  on  his  way  upstairs. 

But  at  the  invocation  of  that  name  her  imagination  was  lulled 
again.  Prince  Anton  could  'get  round'  servants,  might  even 
get  round  Lord  Peterborough,  but  a  hundred  Antons  would 
not  move  Garth  Vincent.  She  settled  down  into  the  pillows 
with  a  luxurious  sense  of  safety.  She  fell  to  shaping  dialogues 
between  the  two  men,  and  could  not  for  her  life  keep  Anton 
from  cutting  therein  a  sorry  figure.  As  for  herself,  she  took 
no  concern.  She  was  under  Vincent's  care.  Warm  and  close, 
like  a  generous  cloak,  she  wrapped  the  words  'under  Garth 
Vincent's  care'  about  her  shrinking  heart.  He  might  browbeat 
her  himself.  He  would  not  let  another. 

She  lay  and  waited  for  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ON  Friday  of  the  fourth  week  he  did  not  come  at  all.  Kath- 
arine had  waited  for  him  with  an  impatience  she  had  some  ado 
to  mask.  When  the  new  nurse  brought  up  a  telephone  message 
that  he  was  delayed,  and  would  not  be  in  till  the  morrow,  Kath- 
arine felt  the  pinch  of  a  disappointment  wholly  disproportionate 
to  the  cause.  It  was  as  if  he  had  done  her  some  great  wrong 
— failed  her  at  a  crucial  moment.  She  was  angry  and  sore,  and, 
yes,  in  pain.  She  had  not  noticed  it  before,  but  the  pain  was 
greater  than  it  had  been — far,  far  greater.  For  fear  the  nurse 
should  guess  at  her  frame  of  mind,  she  dwelt  on  the  physical 
suffering. 

'Would  you  like  me  to  telephone  and  ask  him  to  come  in 
after  dinner?' 

'Oh,  no.' 

Nurse  Lynn  readily  accepted  the  patient's  implied  promise  of 
endurance.  'If  you  can  wait  till  to-morrow — it's  rather  hard 
on  him  after  being  so  driven  all  day,  to  be  called  out  at  night.' 

'I  shouldn't  think  of  it,'  said  Katharine  decidedly. 

'He'll  be  ill  if  he  goes  on  like  this,'  said  the  nurse.  'He  has 
been  told  that  if  he  works  more  than  five  days  a  week  he  will 
break  down.  And  he  does  not  always  get  his  Saturday  and 
Sunday  in  the  country.  He  certainly  looked  very  fagged  on 
Wednesday.' 

'Did  he?' 

'Didn't  you  notice?  He  is  very  anxious — or  he  wouldn't  be 
promising  to  see  people  Saturday.' 

'Anxious?'     (Am  I  seriously  worse?  she  thought.) 

' about  somebody  at  the  Nursing  Home.    And  it  tells  on 

him.' 

'Who  is  it?'  demanded  Katharine. 

193  13 


i94  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'We  aren't  supposed  to  say.  But  we  always  notice  he  is 
like  that  if  a  case  isn't  doing  well — hasn't  a  kind  word  for  any- 
body. I  never  saw  him  worse  than  he  was  when  Mrs. well, 

the  wife  of  his  greatest  friend,  was  very  ill.  I  nursed  her.  It 
was  all  we  could  do' — (Katharine  saw  how  the  nurse  associated 
herself  neck  to  neck  with  the  doctor  in  the  struggle) — 'all  we 
could  do,  to  pull  her  through.  And  she  suffered  the  most  awful 
agony.  One  day  he  came  in  when  I  was  off  duty,  and  found 
some  cocaine  on  her  table.  He  just  stood  there  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  and  swore  till  .  .  .  well,  my  patient  told  me  she 
was  so  wrought  up  by  the  things  he  said,  and  the  way  he  looked, 
that  when  she  found  breath  to  say  why  she  must  have  an  anodyne 
— the  pain  was  gone.  For  the  half-hour  that  he  stayed  there, 
she  had  no  twinge  of  it.' 

'I  doubt  if  bad  language  would  act  so  beneficently  upon  all,' 
said  Katharine  dryly. 

'Well,  it's  very  curious,'  observed  the  nurse.  'I  don't  say  it's 
his  bad  language,  but  he  does  take  away  pain  just  by  coming 
in.'  Katharine  had  already  had  her  own  private  siege,  refusing 
to  admit  this  superstition,  and  would  not  yet  capitulate — certainly 
not  before  a  witness. 

'He  had  to  go  to  Osborne  that  week,'  the  nurse  went  on,  'for 
a  consultation,  and  he  left  that  cocaine  on  my  patient's  table, 
only  telling  her  that  if  she  took  it  she  would  make  the  battle 
harder.  When  he  got  back,  and  saw  how  pale  and  spent  she 
was,  without  sleep,  and  enduring  that  awful  pain,  he  said' — she 
lifted  her  head  with  an  air  of  one  trying  on,  in  imagination,  a 
wreath  of  laurel;  Katharine  prepared  to  hear  some  utterance 
heroic,  if  not  profound — 'my  patient  told  me  that  he  said,  "You're 
a  plucky  woman ! "  and  she  felt  it  was  worth  it.' 

'Worth  .  .  .  what?' 

'To  hear  him  say  that.' 

That  Vincent  should  call  one  a  plucky  woman,  worth  days  of 
agony! 

The  next  day  at  noon  came  a  second  message  to  say  that, 
just  as  he  was  leaving  home  to  come  to  Miss  Dereham,  he  was 
unexpectedly  sent  for  on  a  very  urgent  case,  and  would  not 
therefore  be  at  Peterborough  House  till  Monday. 

Even  after  Katharine's  ire  had  somewhat  subsided,  her  sense 


A  DARK  LANTERN  195 

of  injury  remained  acute.  Who  were  these  people  that  took 
up  all  his  time — kept  him  from  her — couldn't  do  without  him? 

Visions  visited  her  of  houses,  here  and  there,  all  over  the 
West  End.  Men  and  women  lying  in  their  beds,  with  ears 
keen  to  catch  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs,  eyes  turned  to  the 
door:  when  will  he  come?  When  will  Help  come  over  the 
threshold  in  the  person  of  Garth  Vincent?  Hope — Happiness 
.  .  .  what  a  shining  train  he  brought  with  him  into  shadowed 
rooms.  Gods!  what  a  power  for  one  man  to  hold  in  a  democratic 
age! 

But  her  own  private  disappointment  that  he  had  not  brought 
her  any  good  gift  that  day,  of  Faith  or  of  Forgetting — that  pressed 
hard.  She  could  not  get  away  from  the  pain  in  her  body,  and 
shrank  appalled  at  thought  of  all  the  hours  she  must  live  through 
before  Monday  should  bring  her  help.  And  she  was  humiliated 
that  it  should  be  so.  Why  could  she  not  bear  her  pain  alone? 
Why  should  she,  Katharine  Dereham,  want  to  lean  upon  him? 
It  was  inevitable  enough  in  the  feeble,  shallow,  hysterical  women, 
all  very  well  for  a  romantic  little  nurse,  that  the  doctor  should 
represent  to  her  all  good  things,  success  or  failure,  public  opinion, 
the  great  world.  But  for  Katharine  Dereham!  She  wondered 
an  instant  what  Anton  would  say  could  he  look  into  her  mind 
and  see  there  nothing — but  nothing,  save  a  longing  to  see  this 
rough  man  who  so  neglected  her.  Anton,  Bertie,  Blanche,  Lord 
Peterborough — they  flitted  faint  and  shadow-like  about  the  intense 
silhouette  of  Garth  Vincent,  always  now  planted  firm  in  the 
foreground.  She  forced  herself  to  think  of  other  things — scenes 
in  gay  drawing-rooms,  in  Roman  galleries,  palaces,  the  Schleppen 
Cour  at  Berlin,  Court  balls  in  London,  and  the  brilliant  days 
and  nights  she  had  lived  through  in  this  very  house,  where  she 
now  lay  wan  and  spent,  listening  in  vain  for  the  sound  of  Garth 
Vincent's  horses  clattering  in  the  court.  Might  he  not,  after  all, 
get  away  from  that  other  'case'  in  time  to  come  to  her  ?  She  tossed 
and  turned  and  waited.  Angry  and  sore  at  her  own  weakness, 
she  summoned  Sorrow's  aid.  Forced  herself  to  think  of  those 
very  things  from  which  a  month  ago  she  had  prayed  deliverance. 
Again  called  up  Anton — and  even  while  she  said  'Anton'  behold 
\t  was  another.  Made  herself  think  of  her  father.  But  even 
that  spell,  so  long  potent  for  misery  and  preoccupation — even 


i96  A  DARK  LANTERN 

that  had  lost  its  hold.  Vincent's  face  rose  up  between  her  and 
the  sorry  vision,  and  shut  its  image  out. 

Not  merely  a  distraction  now — a  burning  necessity  to  prompt 
the  people  about  her  to  talk  of  him. 

More  stories  of  the  cures  he  had  wrought,  on  the  hopeless  and 
the  dying,  and  always,  where  possible,  the  personal  application 
to  give  the  patient  courage.  When  Katharine  was  most  harassed 
by  pain,  the  panacea  offered  was  some  form  of,  'We  must  tell 
him.'  Once  the  response  came  sharp,  'What's  the  good  of 
that?'  The  new  nurse  stared.  'He  will  know  what  to  do  for 
it.'  Then,  as  the  patient  said  nothing,  'You  must  have  faith 
in  him,'  she  said  softly,  with  such  an  accent  that  Katharine  felt 
the  'him'  to  carry  the  capital  letter.  Just  so  she  knew  pious 
exhorters  spoke  of  the  Saviour  of  men.  They  weren't  content, 
these  women,  with  vaunting  his  natural  powers,  he  must  have 
a  touch  of  the  supernatural  forsooth — to  gratify  the  ingrained 
human  love  of  magic. 

'You  think  he  didn't  know,  without  your  telling  him,  that 
your  head  was  bad  on  Wednesday?  Why,  he  came  in  here 
quite  well  and  cheerful,  and  went  out  of  your  room  in  three 
minutes  with  a  raging  headache.' 

'Yes,'  said  the  patient  in  a  commonplace  tone,  'he  said  the 
room  was  kept  too  hot.  Did  he  tell  you  he  had  a  headache  ? ' 

'Oh,  no — he  never  talks  to  me — except,  of  course,  a  word 
or  two  when  it's  necessary  about  my  work.  He  scolded  me 
Wednesday.'  She  beamed. 

'What  did  he  say?' 

'He  said,  looking  frightfully  angry,  how  did  I  expect  to  get 
anybody  well  in  such  an  atmosphere.' 

'Did  you  tell  him  it  was  my  fault — that  I  had  insisted ' 

'Oh,  no,'  she  smiled.  'With  him  it's  always  the  "nurse's 
fault.'"  On  the  other  side  of  the  door,  Katharine  remembered; 
it  was  always  the  patient's.  'But  I  could  see  by  his  eyes,  before 
he  spoke,  that  he  had  all  of  a  sudden  got  a  headache.  And  he 
reported  me  to  Sister  Morton.  She  telephoned  to  me,  and  I 
went  to  see  her  in  the  evening.  She  mentioned  then,  that  he 
was  frightfully  overworked,  and  had  one  of  his  bad  afternoons. 
It's  no  wonder,'  she  added,  with  a  little  head-shake,  '  that  he  has 
success.  He  pays  for  it.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  197 

'How  does  he  pay?' 

'With  his  own  strength.  He  gives  Himself  to  his  sick  people.' 
(Again  that  effect  of  the  capital  letter.  Gives  Himself!  Kath- 
arine forced  herself  to  smile.)  'Sister  Morton  says  he  goes 
sleepless,  night  after  night,  sometimes  when  he  is  anxious  about 
a  case.  And  all  day  long  he  is  giving  out  his  vital  forces.  She 
says  it's  no  wonder  he  is  sometimes  spent  and  ill  with  fighting 
for  his  sick  people.  And  because  he  doesn't  make  polite  speeches, 
they  call  him  hard.  But  it's  only  the  people  outside'— the 
motion  of  Nurse  Lynn's  white  cap  indicated  that  fraction  of  the 
world  who  were  not  nurses — 'who  think  he's  unsympathetic. 
We  know  better.  Dr.  Vincent  loves  his  patients.'  But  here 
Katharine  laughed  outright.  'Yes,'  protested  the  nurse,  'he  can 
be  horribly  rude  to  them,  but  he  cares  about  them — just  as  we 
do.  You  can't  work  for  weeks  to  help  someone  and  be  indifferent. 
It  isn't  in  nature.  That  is,  if  you  love  your  work.' 

'And  do  you  mean  to  say  you  really  care  about  all  the  horrid 
sick  people  you  have  to  do  disagreeable  things  for?' 

'Yes,'  said  the  woman,  her  fresh  face  shining — 'some  more 
than  others,  of  course,  but  I  always  care.' 

'Then,  you  have  the  true  vocation,'  said  Katharine,  with  a 
sense  of  respect. 

'It  certainly  makes  me  miserable  when  they  don't  get  well,' 
Nurse  Lynn  added,  'just  as  it  does  Him.' 

'I  don't  say  it  is  so  with  you,  but  in  Dr.  Vincent's  case,  what 
you  call  sympathy,  I  call  ambition.  He  hates  not  to  succeed.' 

'So  do  the  other  doctors.  But  more  than  half  his  patients 
are  people  who've  tried  everything  else — wrecks.  And  they 
come  to  him  against  the  other  doctors'  advice,  having  heard 
all  kinds  of  things  against  him.' 

'He  must  know,'  added  Katharine,  'that  all  his  rivals  and 
his  enemies  are  waiting,  keen  as  razors,  to  drop  upon  him  if  he 
fails.  Yes,  I've  heard  about  it.  The  older  men  see  this  young 
iconoclast  climbing  up,  setting  at  defiance  old  ways  and  old  gods, 
rough,  indifferent,  without  reverence  or  fear,  calmly  incurring 
their  displeasure  and  sweeping  away  their  practice — royalty  going 

to  him  and  getting  treated  like  any  pauper  in  the  free  hospital ' 

Katharine  stopped,  breathless.  Where  was  she  going?  Had  she, 
then,  fallen  into  step  with  these  foolish  women  who  followed  him 


198  A  DARK  LANTERN 

like  sheep?  Heavens!  Heavens!  Where — was  she?  Whither 
drifting  ?  Was  he  conscious  at  all  of  what  was  happening  ?  He 
shut  one  up  here,  with  nothing  to  do  but  lie  and  watch  the  legend 
grow!  Daily  an  inch  is  added  to  his  stature!  Soon  he  will  be 
twelve  feet  high,  and  it  will  be  fair  weather  only  when  he 
smiles,  and  storm  and  darkness  when  he  draws  his  black  brows 
together. 

And  still  she  kept  up  the  show  of  cynicism  and  of  unbelief. 

'Why  do  I  take  this  odious  stuff?'  she  said,  pausing  on  Sunday 
morning  with  the  medicine  glass  in  her  hand. 

'Because  you  know  it  will  do  you  good,'  responded  Nurse 
Lynn  with  a  chee^ul  promptitude. 

'Oh,  you  can't  expect  me  <x>  feel  the  blind,  besotted  faith 
in  Vincent  that  you  do.'  The  nurse  flushed  crimson — and 
Katharine  was  sorry  for  the  error  of  her  tongue.  Sorry,  not 
alone  that  she  had  hurt  the  nice  little  woman,  but  afraid  she 
had  set  a  bar  to  conversation  and  to  confidence.  She  hastened 
to  repair  the  error.  'I  confess,'  she  said,  'that  it  does  weigh 
with  me  a  great  deal  that  he  is  able  to  inspire  such  zeal  in  the 
people  who  work  for  him.' 

'Yes,'  said  Nurse  Lynn,  still  painfully  flushed,  but  speaking 
steadily  and  gravely.  'He  has  a  great  many  enemies,  and  .  .  . 
they  say  ...  an  unhappy  nature,  but  if  it's  any  comfort,  he  can 
always  see  that  the  people  who  work  for  him  believe  in  him.' 

'He  is  fortunate.  I  can't  think  of  anything  much  better  in 
the  way  of  a  destiny  than  to  do  good  work  among  people  who 
believe  in  it,  and — like  you.'  She  spared  the  good  little  crea- 
ture 'love  you,'  but  only  because  it  was  a  true  description  of 
the  relation  Vincent's  associates  bore  him;  only  because  Kath- 
arine felt  the  situation  too  vividly  to  use  that  word —  word  like 
a  torch  ready  to  fire  the  city  where  men  and  women  dwell  in 
pretended  safety,  going  decorously  about  their  duties  through 
ruined  streets  and  over  tottering  bridges.  What  a  new  world 
this  was — this  Underworld,  as  she  had  begun  by  calling  it  (though 
slowly  it  had  climbed  the  horizon  like  a  star) — this  world  of 
hard  work — work,  whose  end  was  good  to  others,  world  gov- 
erned so  despotically  by  men  whom  Lady  Algernon  and  her 
like  thought  they  condescended  to  if  they  asked  to  dine,  and 
then,  in  trouble,  leaving  condescension  at  home,  fled  to  these 


A  DARK  LANTERN  199 

despots  with  white  faces,  listened  to  them  as  had  they  been  oracles, 
obeyed  them  as  had  they  been  gods! 

She  looked  back,  reviewing  the  strange  slow  weeks.  As  the 
days  had  drifted  by,  the  world  that  Katharine  Dereham  had 
lived  in  all  her  life  had  grown  dwarfed  and  shadowed.  Not 
merely  aimless,  not  only  morally  ugly,  but  mean,  indistinct. 
What  a  very  little  game  it  was  they'd  all  been  playing!  What 
easy  victories,  what  cheap  victims!  It  seemed  to  her  that  she, 
who  all  her  life  had  lived  amongst  the  'governing  class'  had 
never  (with  the  exception  of  a  certain  great  English  soldier) — 
never  seen  a  man  who  was  master,  till  she  saw  Garth  Vincent 
in  his  consulting-room.  However  little  willing,  no  one  disobeyed 
him  there.  Lying  and  pretence  were  left  on  the  far  side  of  his 
threshold — the  secrets  of  the  deepest  hearts  were  bared  in  that 
confessional,  where  Science  was  acknowledged  Deity,  and  Vin- 
cent her  high-priest  enforcing  truth,  the  creed. 

And  not  there  alone.  As  she  realized  how  he  had  made  this 
long,  impregnable  old  Peterborough  House  his  own,  dominat- 
ing, permeating  it  from  garret  to  cellar,  she  smiled,  remember- 
ing the  Scotch  saying,  'Where  McGregor  sits  is  the  head  of  the 
table.'  Where  Vincent  came,  the  place  became  his  and  the 
people  there  his  servants.  And  it  was  not,  as  she  had  thought 
at  first  (with  a  comic  side-glance  at  herself),  an  effect  of  partial 
paralysis,  induced  by  sheer  astonishment  at  the  rough  direct- 
ness of  his  address — that  rude  succour  that  had  the  air  of 
assault.  No,  this  mastery  was  a  real  thing  with  its  roots  in  char- 
acter. It  was  most  complete  over  those  who  knew  him  best. 
Clear  enough  now,  that  he  moved  among  the  people  who  served 
under  him,  as  a  General  moves  at  the  head  of  a  disciplined  army 
— the  kind  of  General  who,  without  seeming  to  try,  mysteriously 
makes  his  soldiers  glad  to  follow  him,  even  on  short  rations  and 
bleeding  feet. 

History  inquired  in  vain  what  spell  such  leaders  had  invoked, 
but  it  shaped  the  story  of  the  nations  just  as  it  shaped  single 
lives.  It  was  notorious  that  nurses  fell  in  love  with  the  doctors 
they  worked  for,  and  that  it  was  held  to  be  a  nuisance,  matter 
for  covert  smiling.  But  here  the  pitiful  commonness  of  the 
event  was  transmuted,  lifted  up,  by  something  in  the  man — 
so  ready  to  stamp  on  weakness  the  moment  it  showed  its  head, 


200  A  DARK  LANTERN 

something  in  him  so  contemptuous  of  feeling  that  did  not  trans- 
late itself  to  Service,  that  the  little  tragedy  of  these  women's 
lives,  took  on  a  touching  dignity,  as  stoically  they  worked  be- 
side him. 

***** 

Katharine  realized  now,  looking  back,  how  her  imagination 
had  been  haunted  by  the  memory  of  the  little  talk,  during  which 
he  had  said  in  that  unsentimental,  defiant  fashion,  that  only 
love  made  happiness.  A  thousand  times  she  had  recalled  his 
lowering  face,  his  downbent  sullen  look,  and  the  tone  in  which 
he  had,  for  the  one  and  only  time,  said  the  word  'love'  in  her 
hearing. 

The  wonder  at  his  daring  to  speak  the  word  at  all — given 
the  man  he  was — to  say  it  in  a  sick-room,  to  say  it  in  hers — 
wonder  at  it  pursued  her  more  and  more  as  the  days  went  on, 
and  as  the  meaning  of  all  he  said  and  did  gathered  significance. 
She  remembered  how  on  that  occasion,  when  the  first  surprise 
was  over,  and  she  had  glanced  furtively  at  him,  how  she  saw, 
or  thought  she  saw,  that  he  was  not  thinking  of  her  the  least 
in  the  world.  Even  as  long  ago  as  that,  had  she  been  sorry? 
Had  she  unconsciously  hoped  for  some  sign  that  the  great  good 
he  had  missed  was  spelt  with  the  letters  of  her  name?  Cer- 
tainly there  had  been  no  sign  in  him  of  any  remembrance  of 
the  things  he  had  said  to  her  in  the  drawing-room  downstairs 
all  those  years  ago.  No  sign  of  aught  but  a  hurt,  defiant  crea- 
ture confessing  to  another,  his  failure  to  find  the  best.  Had 
he  admitted  so  much  to  Katharine  Dereham  as  to  one  notoriously 
vowed  to  an  absorbing  passion?  Had  that  been  the  key  to  the 
license?  The  mere  surmise  was  edged  with  anger — yes,  and 
quick  with  instant  rebellion.  But  she  was  too  honest-hearted 
to  be  able  to  soothe  herself  with  any  construction  of  his  words 
or  conduct,  that  could  fairly  be  interpreted  as  meaning  the  small- 
est interest  in  her.  He  had  conveyed  to  her  unmistakably,  from 
the  first,  that  she  was  no  more  to  him  now  than  any  other  sick 
woman.  And  she  had  been  so  relieved  and  glad.  Where  was 
it  gone — that  relief  and  that  gladness?  What  was  this  in  its 
place  ? 

Katharine  was  far  enough  from  being  the  kind  of  woman, 
who  wants  every  man  she  comes  into  contact  with,  to  fall  in 


A  DARK  LANTERN  201 

love  with  her.  Her  life  had  been  too  full  of  that  kind  of  thing 
• — and  her  vision  of  its  ultimate  value  was  too  clear  and  sane. 
Why,  then,  did  she  feel  with  growing  poignancy  the  hurt  of  this 
one  man's  indifference?  Could  it  be  because  to  her  he  had 
come  to  be No — no. 

It  was  long  and  long  enough,  since  lying  here  in  her  bed,  after 
he  had  left  her  with  a  jibe,  that  she  had  said  to  herself,  'If  he 
cared  for  me  now,  could  I  many  him?'  And  albeit  her  blood 
made  instant  affirmation,  her  judgment  said  firmly,  'No.'  He 
comes  out  of  another  world.  He  couldn't  live  in  mine,  nor  I 
in  his.  He  is  this.  He  is  that.  She  buttressed  her  sense  of 
criticism  night  and  day.  For  let  no  one  think  Katharine  Dere- 
ham  did  not  struggle  against  the  spell  that  circumstance  (as 
she  truly  said),  more  than  the  man,  had  cast  about  her.  I 
am  weak  and  full  of  fancies,  she  told  herself  a  thousand  times, 
perhaps  at  the  mercy  of  any  impression,  and  this  one  not  alone 
strong  in  itself,  but  making,  in  spite  of  all,  especial  appeal  to  me 
• — to  me  above  any  woman  living. 

That  he  should  obsess  her,  like  this,  was  partly  a  result  of 
her  recoil  from  the  rottenness  of  her  old  standard.  Not  the 
outward  form  and  pressure  of  Romance  alone,  she  had  long 
believed  Prince  Anton  to  embody.  Behind  her  girlish  infatua- 
tion, had  been  the  unconscious  reaching  out  for  high  and  noble 
things. 

Might  not  this  stronger  feeling  (oh  yes,  she  was  sounding 
depths  through  all  these  days  and  nights  that  Anton  had  left 
her  stranger  to) — might  not  this,  instead  of  matter  for  shame- 
faced concealing,  might  it  not  be  a  thing  wholly  honourable — 
fortunate?  A  maturer  ideal,  in  which  the  man's  roughness 
stood  for  truth,  was  truth — his  absence  of  outer  graces  a  kind 
of  blessed  relief  from  pretence  and  inanity  and  humiliating 
insecurity.  There — there,  she  felt,  she  touched  the  heart  of  the 
matter.  This  man  could  treat  her  cavalierly — he  would  never 
shame  her  as  lying  shames.  Oh  the  peace  of  truth!  She  leaned 
against  it  as  the  weary  rest  upon  a  pillow — but  started  up  with 
burning  face — 'truth'  had  taken  on  human  form!  The  imagined 
pillow  under  her  hot  cheek  was  Garth  Vincent's  breast. 


CHAPTER  Vin 

THE  one  thing  at  this  juncture  that  Vincent  could  have  done, 
had  he  realized  and  cared  to  cure  this  new  malady,  would  have 
been  to  put  off  his  armour  of  professionalism  and  give  her  the 
smallest  one  of  the  assurances  her  heart  cried  out  for  day  and 
night.  But  there  seemed  no  flaw  in  the  armour.  So  she  fed 
herself  on  dreams,  faring  more  daintily  than  any  woman  may 
who  finds  herself  called  on  to  digest  hard  fact.  In  that  world 
to  which  she  retired  with  his  image,  she  was  able  to  wrest  all 
to  beauty  and  to  honour.  She  could,  of  course,  have  set  his 
faults  aside.  She  preferred  to  wreathe  them  with  a  fine  romance. 

And  so  she  gave  him  liberally  out  of  her  own  armoury,  any- 
thing he  hitherto  had  lacked  to  overcome  her.  And  so  she 
lay  there,  on  a  pillow  full  of  dreams,  drawing  out  now  a  little 
song,  and  now  a  picture  of  him.  Now  was  he  called  on  to  save 
the  life  of  his  enemy,  and  she  saw  him  going  straight  to  the  task 
—  fulfilling  it  with  a  plain  simplicity  that  wore  an  air  of  antique 
virtue.  And  the  notion  pleased  her  like  the  long-sought  music 
of  a  perfect  rhyme.  Others  might  call  him  coarse.  He  was 
merely  primitive.  Had  she  not  said  when  first  speaking  of  him 
to  Lord  Peterborough  that,  though  he  had  buffeted  her,  he  had 
been  kind  '  in  the  same  way  that  the  wind  and  the  rain  are  kind  '  ? 

Yes,  he  was  like  that  —  like  the  wind  and  the  rain.  But  he 
must  have  tenderness  too.  And  to  verify  it,  through  his  rough- 
ness, she  must  make  pictures  of  him  with  poor,  shy  patients 
and,  more  eloquent  still,  with  his  little  crippled  brother.  And 
these  pictures,  songs,  and  dreams  carried  her  farther  and  far- 
ther into  the  life  that  men  had  said  was  lonely.  Had  he  known 
it,  Garth  Vincent  was  never  an  hour  of  those  days  without  com- 
panioning. 


202 


A  DARK  LANTERN  203 

'I'm  worse.' 

He  went  through  the  usual  routine  rather  more  cheerfully 
than  usual,  Katharine,  for  once,  telling  him  how  the  pain  had 
increased.  '  Oh,  I'm  very  much  worse.' 

'No,  you're  not.' 

'But  indeed  I  am.' 

'You  only  think  so.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  you're  better.'  And 
the  words  imposed  themselves  upon  her  like  a  law.  She  felt 
the  thing  he  had  declared — felt  it  so  long  as  the  Black-Magic 
Man  was  there. 

But  what  was  to  become  of  her  if  she  were  better  only  upon 
those  terms?  Soon  she  would  have  been  lying  here  six  weeks. 
What  was  to  come  after?  And  all  her  dreams  would  shrivel 
up  and  vanish,  in  a  sudden  loneliness  and  fear. 

Nevertheless,  with  her  final  envisagement  of  the  fact  that 
he  had  swept  into  her  life,  like  a  flood  through  a  broken  dyke, 
abolished  all  older  landmarks,  and  overwhelmed  her  world — 
with  her  acceptance  of  this  fact  as  inexorable,  fore-ordained,  the 
instinct  to  keep  aloof  from  him,  to  shrink  from  under  his  hands, 
grew  hour  by  hour.  It  was,  of  course,  mere  reflex  action — 
the  pull-back  from  Nature's  imperious  prompting  'on!'  But 
the  instinct,  strong  as  self-preservation  (of  one  phase  of  which 
it  was  a  spiritual  counterpart),  was  so  dominant  with  her  that 
for  days  she  could  scarce  be  civil  to  him.  She  had  always  (as 
she  looked  back,  this  was  clear)  jelt  him  keenly.  His  first 
entrance  into  her  room,  had  given  her  a  sense  of  being  intensely 
alive. 

Now,  partly  that  instinct  of  self-preservation,  and  under- 
neath, lurking  behind,  a  refinement  of  sensuousness,  made  her 
want  to  elude  the  touch  of  those  slim  brown  fingers  that  did 
work  as  mechanic,  as  unfaltering,  as  some  fine  instrument  that 
ruthlessly  registers  human  conditions,  feeling  them  as  little  as  the 
hermometer  feels  cold. 

A  thousand  times  she  had  reminded  herself  of  how  she  had 
always  despised  the  weak,  hysterical  fools  who  fell  in  love  with 
their  doctors.  There  was  something  to  her  sense  quite  espe- 
cially undignified  in  it.  No  such  sentiment  ought  even  remotely 
to  touch  a  relation  which  at  best  is  delicate  and  trying.  Of 
course,  doctors  couldn't  like  sick  women.  Naturally,  far  more 


204  A  DARK  LANTERN 

than  other  men  they  worshipped  health.  And  if  they  saw  that 
their  patients Ugh!  how  it  must  revolt  them! 

This  man,  especially!  How  merciless  he  would  be!  For 
days  now  her  preoccupation  was  how  successfully  to  hide  the 
truth.  The  strain  told  obviously  upon  her  weakened  forces. 
She  was  spent,  and  daily  still  more  frail.  She,  who  had  been 
used  to  sleep  so  well,  began  to  lie  awake  hour  after  hour,  alter- 
nately driving  the  thought  of  him  away  with  scourging  words, 
and  then  calling  him  back,  with  thoughts  and  images  that  lulled 
her  like  a  poison,  working  to  later  pain.  She  would  sometimes 
in  the  night  make  a  desperate  pact  with  herself  that  when  he 
came  again  she  would  say,  with  the  boldness  of  one  fighting 
for  life,  '  Go  away,  and  let  me  send  for  someone  else.  You  can't 
do  me  any  good,  for  I've  fallen  in  love  with  you.'  And  in  the 
morning  she  would  see  that  it  would  be  easier  to  die  than  to  say 
such  words.  Following  upon  this,  came  the  phase  in  which 
intense,  and  hitherto  unimagined  physical  agony,  drove  out 
thought.  An  evening  when  she  got  up  and  walked  the  floor, 
saying  to  Nurse  Lynn: 

'Send  for  Vincent.' 

He  came. 

'I  am  in  unbearable  pain,  and  I've  stood  it  as  long  as  I  can. 
I  must  sleep.  Give  me  a  draught.' 

'No!' 

Katharine  had  gone  back  to  bed  before  he  entered.  The 
fair  hair  that  had  tumbled  down  on  each  side  of  her  face  set 
all  save  eyes  in  shadow. 

'Where  is  the  pain?'  He  bent  down  over  her  with  a  strange 
gentleness,  and  for  a  moment  she  could  not  speak.  'I  can't 
see  you.'  He  lifted  the  electric  night-light  with  one  hand,  and 
with  the  other  he  pushed  the  hair  away  from  her  face. 

'Don't J "  she  cried,  recoiling.  Plainly,  as  the  light  flashed  an 
instant  on  him,  she  saw  how  his  long,  gleaming  eyes  grew  sud- 
denly suffused.  They  had  a  curious  trick  of  getting  bloodshot 
when  he  was  angry.  She  had  noticed  it  before.  But  she 
had  never  seen  him,  nor  any  human  soul,  look  as  he  looked 
at  that  moment,  when  he  set  the  light  down  on  the  marble 
slab,  with  a  clang  and  an  oath,  left  her  bedside  and  fled  to 
the  fire. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  205 

'If  you'll  forgive  me,'  said  Katharine,  trembling,  'I'll  forgive 
you.' 

'Forgive.  .  .  .  What  have  you  got  to  forgive?  I'm  here  for 
business,  and  I  attend  to  it  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  But  I'd 
much  prefer  you  should  send  for ' 

'Hush,  hush,'  she  said,  very  low.  'You  ought  to  know  it  was 
the  pain.' 

He  walked  up  and  down  before  the  fire,  fulminating.  She 
didn't  listen. 

'You  don't  mean  that  you  can't  give  me  something  to  deaden 
this  suffering.' 

'By  God!  I  can — but  I  won't.  Send  for  a  regular  practitioner. 
Who  do  you  want  ?  What's  his  name  ?  Come,  who  is  it  ? ' 

Down  under  all  her  wretchedness,  she  smiled.  He  was  sen- 
sitive as  any  woman.  Hurt  to  the  quick  that  a  patient  of  his 
should  recoil  from  his  hand,  when  he  was  trying  only  to  help 
her,  outraged  at  his  suspicion  that  she  should  think  he  over- 
stepped his  duty;  ready  with  all  his  success  to  think  she  was 
losing  faith  in  him;  quick  to  forestall  a  possible  wish  to  'call  in 
another  opinion.' 

'Come,  who  is  it  you  want?'  he  was  still  angrily  demanding. 

'There  is  no  one,'  she  said,  quite  low.  But  he  was  not 
appeased. 

'Call  in  some  other  man!  Any  general  practitioner  can  give 
you  some  pleasant  dose  that'll  put  you  to  sleep.  I  could  do  it 
too.  I  can  take  away  any  damned  pain  you  like.  The  difference 
between  us  is,  that  I  won't  make  you  easy  for  a  night  at  the  cost 
of  all  the  rest  of  your  life.' 

'Very  well,'  said  Katharine.  Still  he  was  angrily  pacing  the 
floor,  and  recommending  general  practitioners. 

When  he  had  exhausted  the  theme,  and  found  that  still  Kath- 
arine lay  quite  quiet  and  apparently  subdued,  he  said  more 
gently:  'If  I  were  weak  enough  to  give  you  a  narcotic 
now,  in  the  state  your  nerves  are  in,  I'd  be  doing  you  a  serious 
injury.' 

'But  how  am  I  going  to  get  through  these  hours  ahead  of 
me?'  As  he  seemed,  unheeding,  to  be  going,  'Oh!'  she  cried, 
'Black-Magic  Man,  give  me  a  charm!' 

He  stopped,  looked  back,  stared  at  her  an  instant. 


206  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Set  your  teeth,  and  say  damn!'  With  which  flower  of  style, 
and  fragment  of  high  philosophy,  he  left  the  room. 

The  next  day  he  returned. 

'Any  better?' 

'No.' 

'What  are  you  worrying  about?' 

'Nothing.' 

'Yes,  you  are,  There's  nothing  in  your  analysis  to  accoun; 
for  the  state  you're  in.  What  are  you  worrying  about?' 

'Only  at  being  so  ill.' 

'You  are  beginning  to  fret  at  confinement.' 

'No  .  .  .' 

'You  think  someone  is  bothering  about  you' — (did  she  dream 
it,  or  did  his  heavy  eyes  look  dully  out  for  an  instant  at  the  figure 
in  Prussian  blue  above  the  blazing  fire?) — 'you  think  someone 
can't  get  on  without  you.  Women  are  so  damned  conceited!' 

'I'm  not  thinking —  Katharine  could  never  remember 
quite  what  the  words  were  that  tumbled  out — she  only  felt  through 
the  nightmare  of  pain,  and  anger,  and  love,  and  fear,  a  pas- 
sionate need  of  denying,  of  sweeping  utterly  and  for  ever  away, 
his  belief  that  Anton,  Prince  of  Breitenlohe-Waldenstein,  counted 
for  anything  with  her  in  the  future.  It  was  suddenly,  somehow, 
a  matter  of  honour  to  disavow  concern  with  all  that  life  where 
he — Garth  Vincent — was  not. 

She  could  have  wept,  as  she  saw  her  failure  to  convince  him, 
written  in  his  face,  before  he  said  the  words:  'I  assure  you  the 
world  goes  on  very  well  without  .  .  .  any  of  us.  But  you  won't 
believe  me.  You  lie  awake,  and  .  .  .' 

'And  what?' 

'Well,  you  know.' 

'I — I  don't  know,'  she  faltered.  But  she  saw  now,  plainly, 
that  the  roving  glance  that  would  not  rest  on  her,  had  caught 
upon  the  picture  of  the  Prince.  It  was  more  than  she  could 
bear.  She  half  sat  up.  '  Perhaps  you  share  the  vulgar  suspicion 
that  I  have  a  very  special  interest  at  stake' — (only  a  gleam 
answered  out  of  half-shut  eyes) — 'that  I  am  Prince  Anton's  mis- 
tress.' As  he  said  nothing,  nor  even  moved,  she  found  herself 
adding  passionately:  'I  am  not.  I  have  never  been.' 

'Much  better  for  you  if  you  had,  since  you  hadn't  the  sense 


A  DARK  LANTERN  207 

to  marry,'  and  before  she  could  recover  from  her  stark  astonish- 
ment, he  was  gone. 

The  next  day  he  was  there  again — no  interval  now,  daily  visits, 
but  shorter  even  than  they  had  been,  and  never  talk  of  anything 
touching  himself. 

'You're  so  accustomed  to  complaining,  exaggerating  people,' 
she  said,  'that  you  have  no  idea  what  I'm  suffering.' 

'Yes,  I  have.     I  know  it's  Hell,'  he  answered  calmly. 

His  acceptance  for  her  of  the  worst  that  pain  could  be, 
made  strangely  for  her  acceptance  of  it.  'We'll  see  how  it  is 
to-morrow.' 

And  to-morrow:  'Well?' 

'The  same.' 

'Where?'  She  showed  him,  feeling  behind  the  clamour  of 
the  tortured  nerves  a  curious  new  peace  instead  of  the  old  fierce 
unrest  at  his  nearness.  Pain  had  to  that  extent  sobered  the 
fever  in  her  blood.  She  felt  no  longer  woman,  but  mere  suffering 
human  being. 

*  *  •*  *  * 

Saturday  to-day.  How  long,  how  torturingly  long,  before 
Monday  would  bring  him  back !  But  Sunday  brought  a  change 
in  the  weather.  Katharine  was  quick  to  feel  the  revivifying  in- 
fluence of  that  rare  phenomenon,  a  little  sunshine  in  the  London 
winter.  'He'll  be  glad  I'm  better,'  she  thought  childishly,  and 
he  had  barely  got  inside  her  door,  before  she  greeted  him  joyfully 
with  the  news,  'Oh,  Black-Magic  Man,  the  pain's  all  gone.' 

If  he  were  pleased,  he  successfully  concealed  the  fact. 

'Better,  are  you?'  he  said  roughly.  'It's  about  time  I  Ever 
since  I  took  hold  of  you,  you've  been  behaving  like  a  damned 
baulky  horse!' 

She  gasped.  He  never  even  looked  up  from  under  his  sullen 
eyelids  to  see  how  she  took  his  elegant  speech.  The  contrast 
between  the  ideal  hero  and  the  queer  creature  before  her  struck 
her  both  as  comic  and  exhilarating.  'Why  do  you  come  back 
after  a  pleasant  holiday  in  the  country  with  evil  words  in  your 
mouth  ? ' 

'I  hadn't  a  pleasant  holiday.' 

'Why  not?' 

'Had  the  blues.' 


2o8  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'What  nonsense!'  said  Katharine,  feeling  singularly  cheerful 
herself,  in  spite  of  the  'evil  words.' 

'It  isn't  nonsense.  There  are  always  more  unhappy  days  to 
be  got  through  than  happy  ones.' 

'Not  if  one  has  health.'     She  sighed  enviously. 

'In  that  case  I  must  be  ill.' 

Does  he  make  a  cult  of  sadness?  thought  Katharine.  Does 
he  shrewdly  guess  that  it  makes  one's  heart  ache  to  know  how 
hard  he  works  to  lift  up  other  lives,  and  yet  must  himself  live 
more  than  half  his  days  under  the  harrow  of  depression  ? 

'  Do  you  really  mean  you  were  too  '  down '  to  enjoy  the  country 
this  glorious  weather?' 

He  nodded.     'I  didn't  even  care  about  my  dogs.' 

Her  betterment  was  as  short-lived  as  the  London  sunshine. 
The  next  time  he  came,  'Oh,  help  me — help  me!' 

'Don't  I  try?' 

'Yes,  but  I'm  such  a  difficult  subject!' 

'You're  right  there.' 

Four  unforgettable  days,  during  which  he  did  not  see  her. 
He  had  gone  to  Scotland  for  a  consultation.  Then  came  the 
break  of  Sunday. 

On  Monday  he  found  her  very  ill — said  little,  left  a  new  pre- 
scription. She,  too,  had  hardly  spoken.  But  something  seized 
hold  of  her  as  he  was  going  out.  She  turned  her  white  face 
towards  him:  'Don't  let  it  be  so  long  until  you  come  again.' 

'Why?' 

'You  help  me.' 

'Why,  I  thought  it  was  the  other  way  about.  I  thought  I  did 
you  harm.' 

'Oh,  no.'  And  when  he  was  gone  she  smiled  a  little  to  herself, 
supposing  he  had  in  mind  his  roughness,  and  the  instances — 
not  a  few — where  he  had  got  on  other  patients'  nerves,  and  where 
they  had  even,  according  to  the  nurse,  written  letters  asking  him 
not  to  come  again,  for  a  few  days. 

How  modest  he  is,  after  all,  quite  ready  to  think  ill  of  himself! 
.  .  .  Then  a  flash,  as  of  horrible  lightning,  and  Katharine  covered 
her  face  from  its  fierceness  with  her  hands. 

He  guesses!    He  has  no  fear,  this  time,  that  his  faults  of  temper 


A  DARK  LANTERN  209 

or  of  manner  have  done  his  patient  harm.     I've  borne  them 
strangely  well — so  strangely,  that  at  last  ...  he  knows  1 
***** 

'There  is  a  great  deal  of  noise  about  the  house.  Why  are  so 
many  carriages  driving  into  the  court?' 

The  nurse  looked  embarrassed.  'I  will  ask,'  she  said.  But 
if  she  asked,  she  did  not  share  her  information. 

'I  shall  have  lain  here  six  weeks  next  Tuesday,'  Katharine 
said  gravely  to  Vincent  upon  the  occasion  of  his  subsequent 
visit.  '  When  am  I  to  get  up  ? ' 

'As  soon  as  you  are  better.'  Each  time  that  he  came  after 
that,  she  said  something  about  bringing  the  treatment  to  a  close. 
But  he  was  firm. 

'You  said  six  weeks.' 

'I  hoped  six  weeks  would  do  it.' 

The  intense  pain  was  certainly  yielding  again. 

***** 

'When  can  I  get  up?' 

'To-morrow.' 

Katharine's  face  broke  into  smiling.  'Really?  When  can  I 
have  my  letters?' 

'Wednesday,  if  you're  as  well  as  this.' 

'And  when  may  I  go  out?' 

'At  the  end  of  the  week,  if  you  don't  backslide.' 

She  lay  thinking.  How  she  had  plagued  him  these  last  days, 
to  say  just  that!  And  now,  unexpectedly,  upon  the  coming  of 
the  longed-for  word,  a  great  jump  of  joy,  but  with  something 
like  a  caught  foot  to  one  vaulting.  What  is  this?  Why  am  I 
not  wholly  glad  to  be  better — to  be  taking  my  place  again  among 
the  living  and  the  doing?  Then  she  saw  that  all  these  weeks 
of  imprisonment  had  made  a  change  in  her  other  than  that 
coming  through  Vincent's  personality.  When  her  first  excite- 
ment at  the  thought  of  getting  up  and  going  out — when  that  died, 
she  found  herself  trying  to  evade  an  obscure  sense  of  fear,  creeping, 
creeping,  till  finally  it  flew  at  her  throat  and  held  her  panther-like. 
Fear  of  what?  Of  life.  Of  going  out  from  the  sheltered  place 
where  she  had  lain  and  fretted,  found  fault  with  nurse  and  doctor 
and  masseuse,  suffered  a  strange  new  malady,  and  railed  mightily 
at  the  old,  and  sighed  ten  thousand  times  for  health  and  freedom. 

14 


210  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Only  to  get  out  of  this  dungeon-room  where  Vincent  had  laid 
galling  chains  upon  her! — oh,  to  stand  upon  her  feet,  and  meet 
him  as  a  free  woman,  accustomed  to  dictate  terms  to  men !  And 
now  that  the  doors  are  wide,  only  a  shrinking  back  from  the 
light,  from  the  roar  of  the  outside  world,  from  this  much-vaunted 
freedom — that  no  woman,  she  told  herself  passionately,  no  woman 
has  any  use  for. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  door  waited  Anton,  free — waited  her 
father — Bertie.  And  she  was  not  yet  a  well  woman.  Oh,  far 
enough  from  that.  How  was  she  to  take  up  the  heavy  burden? 
Suddenly  to  shoulder  all  responsibility  herself,  after  this  long 
physical  and  mental  idleness,  after  this  close-wrapping  of  hourly 
attention,  of  never-sleeping  care  ...  to  go  out  to  face  the 
November  wind?  She  shivered  like  a  new-born  babe,  and  fell 
to  wailing  inwardly.  And  the  mood  was  not  as  passing  as  she 
hoped.  All  the  various  motives  avowed  and  unavowed,  for 
shrinking  back,  for  veiled  terror,  kept  flying  across  her  vision  like 
dim  sea-birds  in  the  dusk  before  a  storm.  They  gather  in  a 
place  of  shelter,  they  perch  behind  a  tall,  wind-breasting  rock. 
Not  one  little  fear  but  flies  to  him  and  falls  to  rest.  She  could 
reason  about  it.  For  all  these  weeks,  not  an  act  of  my  life  but 
has  been  referred  to  him.  May  I?  Is  this  well?  I  am  weaker! 
'No,  you're  not  weaker!' — and  straightway  weakness  was  not. 
Was  the  pain  too  great?  Patience,  he  will  come.  Was  the  time 
unendurably  long?  But  he  is  on  the  stair.  Am  I  utterly  out 
of  heart  ?  He  has  confidence  to  share — nay,  compels  your  sharing 
it.  He  is  the  great  symbol  of  duty  and  of  strength. 

The  early  sayings  of  the  nurse  came  back:  'You  must  have 
faith  in  Him.'  And  she  had.  And  to  this  end:  that  without 
him,  faith  was  not  on  the  earth. 

'What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  get  up?' 

She  looked  at  him  an  instant.     'To  do?' 

'Yes:  where  do  you  want  to  go?' 

'Oh,  I  shan't  go  anywhere.  Lord  Peterborough  hates  travel- 
ling nowadays.' 

'You've  got  to  get  into  the  country,  or  by  the  sea.' 

'Oh  no,'  she  found  herself  pleading,  as  though,  after  she  left 
his  hands,  she  was  still  bound  to  acknowledge  his  supremacy 
over  her  actions.  'I  don't  feel  enterprising.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  211 

'  Of  course  not.  But  you  must  leave  London.  Better  arrange 
to  do  so  Saturday.' 

'Is  a  change  of  air  absolutely  essential?' 

'Absolutely.     Where  will  you  go?' 

'Oh,  I  shall  have  to  consult  Lord  Peterborough.  Poor  dear! 
he'll  have  to  immolate  himself,  and  come  too!'  He  never  failed 
her,  bless  him!  But  Vincent  had  precipitately  left  the  room. 
She  heard  a  low-voiced  conversation  going  on  outside.  He 
was  talking  longer  with  the  nurse  to-day  than  he  ever  had  before. 

What ?  At  last  the  quick  steps  running  down  the  stair. 

Nurse  Lynn  came  in  and  sat  down. 

'Miss  Dereham,  Dr.  Vincent  says  that  I  must  tell  you  to  pre- 
pare yourself  for  some  sad  news.'  Katharine  sat  up  suddenly. 

'My  father ' 


'No.     Lord  Peterborough- 


'Well?  Is — is  he He  is  dying!'  She  was  out  of  bed. 

Nurse  Lynn  ran  forward,  and  prevented  her  from  reaching  the 
door. 

'Oh,  Miss  Dereham,  come  back.  It  is  of  no  use.  He — 
Lord  Peterborough  is  dead.'  Katharine  stopped  stone-still  in 
the  centre  of  the  room. 

'When  did  he  die?' 

'Two  weeks  ago,  when  you  were  worse.  You  remember 
that  day  you  asked  why  so  many  carriages  were  driving  into 
the  court.  It  was  the  day  of  the  funeral.' 


BOOK  III 

VINCENT 

CHAPTER  I 

TENDERLY  attached  as  she  had  been  to  Lord  Peterborough, 
through  all  the  years  since  his  roof  had  meant  home  to  her,  the 
first  thought  upon  the  shock  of  the  news  had  been,  not  her  own 
loss  and  utter  loneliness,  but:  'Did  he  want  me?  Of  course  he 
did.  He  was  missing  me  all  those  last  weeks  of  his  kind  life.' 
Few  people,  so  far  as  she  knew  his  history,  had  ever  been  necessary 
to  Lord  Peterborough,  but  Katharine  Dereham  was  one.  She 
ought  to  have  been  with  him.  Oh,  to  die  alone,  like  that,  with 
only  hirelings  near! — not  to  have  your  last  look  into  the  dimming 
world,  encounter  eyes  that  love  you. — Her  tears  flowed  fast. 
'Why,'  she  said  to  Nurse  Lynn,  'was  I  not  told,  when  they  saw 
he  was  seriously  ill?' 

'Sir  Lawrence  wanted  you  to  be  told.' 

'Well?' 

'Dr.  Vincent  had  an  interview  with  Lord  Peterborough,  and 
after  it  was  over  Lord  Peterborough  gave  orders,  himself,  that 
you  should  on  no  account  be  told.' 

Vincent!  Vincent  had  done  that.  The  next  day  she  turned 
a  sad,  reproachful  countenance  upon  him  as  he  entered,  asking 
how  he  could  do  her  such  a  wrong.  Had  he  no  idea  how  much 
love  and  duty  she  owed  the  lonely  old  man?  She  would  have 
been  quite  able  to  bear  seeing  him. 
,,  'I  was  the  best  judge  of  that — at  least,  I  was  the  only  judge.' 

'It  was  very  wrong  of  you ' 

'It  was  absolutely  right.     I  would  do  just  the  same  again.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  213 

'I  can  only  say  your  judgment  was  greatly  at  fault.  The 
shock  of  hearing  "It  is  all  over,"  and  I — I  not  there  beside  him' — 
the  tears  overflowed  again — 'it  is  far  worse  for  me  than  to  be 
told  he  was  ill  and  wanted  me.  I  should  have  had  all  my  life  the 
comfort  of  knowing  I  was  with  him  at  the  last.' 

'Your  comfort,'  he  said,  'that's  what  you're  thinking  about. 
He  didn't  want  you.' 

'I'm  sure  he  did.     He  loved  me.' 

'Maybe,'  he  shrugged;  'but  you  don't  want  anybody  when 
you're  dying.' 

'/  shall — or  should,  if  there  were  anyone  who  cared  for  me  as 
I  cared  for  Lord  Peterborough.'  Vincent  sat  and  looked  at  his 
knees.  'This  shock  has  thrown  me  back,'  she  went  on.  'I  shall 
not  be  able  to  go  away  on  Saturday.' 

'That's  just  as  you  feel,'  he  said,  indifferently. 

It  was  not  till  some  little  while  after  she  learned  of  his  death, 
that  she  began  to  realize  for  how  much  Lord  Peterborough  had 
counted,  not  only  in  the  general  scheme  of  things,  but  in  her 
present  perplexity.  All  through  those  last  days  she  had  been 
mentally  arranging  matters,  with  him  for  point  d'appui.  They 
would  go  away  together — do  this  and  that  together.  She  even 
had  a  plan  of  taking  the  wise  old  wordling  into  her  confidence, 
and  letting  him  administer  the  tonic  of  whimsical  comment. 
And  just  as  she  was  putting  out  her  hand  to  him,  he  had  vanished 
from  the  world. 

Instead  of  arranging  to  go  away  on  Saturday,  she  saw  Blanche 
Bruton  and  the  family  lawyer.  She  learned,  that  like  the  lady  of 
Belmont,  she  was  'richly  left.'  She  sorted  and  read  certain  of 
her  letters — not  Anton's  yet,  she  shrank  from  the  very  touch  of 
them.  But  her  father's.  She  opened  these  in  the  order  of  their 
dates.  He  was  'wretched,'  'desperate,'  he  was  'dying.'  She 
'must  come.'  He  was  'better' — he  had  a  'Polish  nurse'  who 
was  a  'jewel.'  Katharine  recognised  the  strain,  and  smiled 
through  her  sadness.  He  would  play  off  the  Polish  jewel,  against 
his  undutiful  daughter.  Before  she  broke  the  seals,  she  seemed 
already  to  have  read  the  letters  that  followed.  But  now  she  saw 
there  was  a  gap  of  three  weeks,  and  then — a  note  dated  from  the 
Hotel  Ritz  in  Paris.  'I  am  here  with  my  wife.'  He  had  married 
the  Polish  Jewell 


2i4  A  DARK  LANTERN 

When  Vincent  came  back  on  Monday  she  told  him. 

'I  haven't  the  faintest  notion  what  to  do.  Mrs.  Bruton  wants 
me  to  go  with  them  to  Egypt.  But '  She  looked  at  him. 

'Well,  why  not?' 

'I  thought  you  objected  to  our  "teetotum"  ways.' 

'You  must  go  where  you  can  get  pure  air  for  a  few  weeks — it 
doesn't  matter  where  it  is.' 

*  *  *  *  * 

She  found  herself  too  weak  even  to  see  properly  to  her  mourn- 
ing. Couldn't  stand  to  have  clothes  tried,  couldn't  bear  the 
weight  of  them  when  they  were  made.  It  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion to  go  anywhere  with  people  who  rushed  about,  and  sight- 
saw  or  did  anything  strenuous.  Together  with  an  even  abnormal 
activity  of  mind  and  fancy,  a  great  physical  lassitude  lay  heavy 
upon  her.  She  finished  a  poem  on  the  Land  of  Counterpane, 
and  the  two  sonnets  she  had  written  during  her  'isolation'  sud- 
denly fell  into  place  in  the  newly  and  more  vividly  seen  'Se- 
quence' which  eagerly  she  planned.  She  tried  to  think  of  the 
future,  and  saw  only  Vincent's  frowning  face.  'I  will  go  away 
somewhere  for  a  little,  with  only  Natalie,'  she  determined — and 
the  sea-air  shall  clear  my  brain  of  all  the  cobwebs  that  I've  col- 
lected in  this  room.  I  shall  let  the  sunlight  in,  and  then  have 
a  look  at  life's  possibilities. 

'I  am  going  to  Torquay,'  she  announced  to  Vincent. 

'  That's  all  right.     Who  with  ? ' 

'My  maid.' 

'To  visit  people?' 

'No.' 

'It  won't  do  you  any  good  to  be  bored.  Why  not  take  some- 
body along,  or  let  someone  join  you?' 

'I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  people.'  Then,  fixing  him  steadily 
for  an  instant:  'I  am  not  well,  you  know,  even  yet.' 

'Of  course  you're  not  well.  How  should  you  be?  Seven 
weeks  of  sense  won't  always  redeem — how  many  years  is  it  of 
foolishness?'  She  was  silent.  He  was  pretending  he  had  for- 
gotten her  age.  Twice  already  he  had  asked  it,  just  as  several 
times  he  had  put  other  leading  questions  over  again.  At  first 
she  had  thought  that  his  memory,  charged  with  so  many  'cases,' 
had  very  naturally  tripped.  But  it  was  too  retentive  of  trifles  for 


A  DARK  LANTERN  215 

her  long  to  hold  that  error  fast.  Little  by  little  she  had  divined 
the  man's  invincible  unbelief  in  the  truth  of  people's  testimony. 
His  psychology  was  sound,  at  least,  in  that,  while  he  knew  most 
people  can  upon  occasion  lie,  few  people  can  manage  to  tell  the 
same  lie,  at  long  intervals,  in  different  moods,  and  under  widely 
varying  circumstances.  'You're  only  better,'  he  said  at  last, 
seeing  that  this  time  she  was  not  going  to  answer. 

'But  I  want  to  be  well.  Oh,  I  want  dreadfully  to  be  well. 
There's  no  reason,  is  there,  why  I  shouldn't  be?'  He  looked 
at  her  in  that  curious  grudging  fashion  that  she  had  come  to 
know. 

'You've  had  too  much  of  everything  in  your  life,  except  one.' 

'  You  mean  rest  ? ' 

'Oh,  you've  caught  up  some  of  that.' 

'What  is  it  I  have  lacked?' 

'You  wouldn't  like  me  to  tell  you.' 

'Yes,  I  would,'  but  her  heart  misgave  her.  'What  is  it  I 
have  lacked?' 

'A  man.' 

She  drew  a  startled  breath  as  if  he'd  struck  her. 

'I  suppose,'  he  went  on  brutally,  'you've  taken  credit  for  your 
way  of  life.  It's  been  your  destruction — very  near.'  Not  a 
word  was  uttered  by  either  for  some  seconds.  Then:  'Do  you 
want  it  put  more  plainly?' 

'No,  no,'  she  shuddered;  'you  are  plain  enough.'  But  his 
sullen  eyes  seemed  to  own  no  wish  to  spare  her  any  hurt  he  could 
inflict. 

'You'd  better  just  look  about  you  as  quick  as  you  can,'  he 
said  coarsely.  'It's  no  time  for  nonsense,  no  time  for  sentiment 
or — Poetry!'  He  brought  the  word  out  venomously.  'Get  the 
first  help  you  can  to  repair  your  past  foolishness.  Good-bye. 
And  remember!  Even  poetic  ladies  are  human!  Good-bye.' 
***** 

She  established  herself  with  Natalie  in  rooms  that  looked  on 
the  sea.  For  a  whole  week  she  walked,  and  drove,  and  slept 
and  fought  her  dreams.  A  wire  from  Anton  ran:  'Only  just 
learned  your  address.  Shall  be  down  to-night.'  And  that  same 
morning  she  fled  to  Ventnor,  leaving  only  the  London  address 
behind.  On  the  cliffs  overlooking  the  Solent,  Katharine  read 


216  A  DARK  LANTERN 

the  accumulated  letters  and  old  telegrams  from  Berlin,  that  she 
might  realize  'whereabouts  he  is.'  Dismay  fell  upon  her  as  she 
read,  to  feel  him  so  close  to  her  again.  So  ghastly  close!  What 
phrases  he  used!  How  dared  he?  Why,  of  course  he  dared. 
He  had  seen  her  glow  under  his  caressing  German.  Surely  there 
is  more  intimacy  conveyed  by  the  German  tongue  than  any 
other  men  can  speak.  There  is  in  Italian  a  certain  barrier  of 
high  courtesy,  in  French  a  formal  elegance,  in  English  an  im- 
plication of  reticence,  but  in  German!  Ah,  how  dared  he  write 
her  in  such  terms — things  a  man  might  say  to  a  chambermaid? 
And  he  was  full  of  meeting — meeting!  'And  no  parting  ever 
again.'  Each  letter  more  earnest  than  the  last.  Well,  some- 
body cared  for  her,  after  all! 

She  sat  wrapped  in  furs,  on  a  high-perched  balcony,  looking 
at  the  pale  sunshine  on  the  sea,  and  trying  to  forecast  what  was 
to  come. 

There  was  danger  for  her  in  her  present  mood,  in  that  thought: 
somebody  cared.  Danger  of  a  vulgar  kind  she  felt.  She  saw 
herself  sinking,  after  the  long  fight,  into  a  relation  to  Prince 
Anton  morganatic,  not  merely  socially  questionable,  but  in  essence 
evil,  because  accepted  now  as  a  miserable  makeshift,  with  none 
of  the  old  innocence  and  faith.  Besides,  now  it  would  be  a  kind 
of  treason.  Her  heart,  her  very  blood,  were  full  of  another. 
She  dropped  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  and  then  shrank  back  into 
the  light.  For  in  the  dark  of  covered  eyes,  she  saw  Vincent  in 
that  last  merciless  mood  of  his. 

And  was  she  to  follow  his  brutal  counsel — go  away  with  Anton, 
or  stay  in  England  as  Bertie's  wife? 

Nothing  easier  to  Vincent's  view.  And  she  exonerated  him 
from  baseness  in  her  mind.  These  were  matters  hid  from  men. 
For  it  is  only  woman  who  suffers  through  the  burden  of  mere 
sex.  Men  have  the  permission  of  public  opinion  to  evade  this 
suffering.  A  grant  derived  from  the  mighty  men  of  old  who 
established  that  Public  Opinion,  through  which  to-day  even 
the  weak  male  finds  liberty — finds  immunity  from  the  grosser 
burden  of  the  flesh.  The  bold  initiative  of  the  men  of  old,  sur- 
vives, too,  in  the  accepted  privilege  of  the  man  to  'propose'  to 
the  woman — and  to  take  rebuff  without  injury  to  his  self-esteem. 

But  is  not  woman  as  old  as  man?    Why  did  she  not  in  those 


A  DARK  LANTERN  217 

robuster  times,  even  while  accepting  the  yoke  of  labour  and  sub- 
serviency, why  did  she  not  employ  her  thousand  arts  and  all  her 
subtle  strength  to  compass  liberty  in  this  respect  at  least  ?  Why, 
with  the  very  beginning  of  civilization,  do  we  find  the  woman 
commonly  cherishing  chastity  in  fact  as  well  as  in  appearance? 
For  the  children's  sake,  say  the  historians,  or  out  of  fear  of  the 
male.  But  the  explanation  leaves  too  much  out  of  account. 
Small  doubt  the  male  preferred  it  so,  but  he  had  an  ally  in  the 
woman's  heart,  or  he  would  as  little  have  prevailed,  as  she  to-day 
to  keep  him  true  to  an  ideal  yet  unrealized. 

The  root  of  woman's  suffering  (and  of  her  rarest  joy;  Katharine 
saw  the  one  as  clearly  as  the  other)  lay  deeper  than  any  mere 
lack  of  custom's  sanction  to  escape  from  the  importunity  of  the 
flesh.  Were  it  otherwise,  woman  had  ages  ago  been  free,  and 
left  freedom  unattainted  a  heritage  to  all  her  daughters.  'But 
she  will  never  be  free,'  said  the  prisoner,  in  the  little  iron-bound 
balcony  above  the  sea.  Not  for  her,  except  in  the  lower  types, 
the  satisfaction  men  find  in  the  temporary,  the  makeshift;  the 
soothing  of  the  body,  while  the  soul  sleeps. 

No  reasonable  woman,  to  Katharine's  thinking,  would  make 
this  difference  a  ground  for  any  assumption  of  superiority.  Just 
as  surely  as  her  body  is  made  something  different  from  man's 
so  in  this  is  her  soul  different.  It  is  the  mark  of  the  feminine 
on  the  spirit,  this  hunger  for  the  special,  for  the  one  that  out  of 
all  the  world  alone  is  hers,  the  one  that,  whatever  he  may  do, 
she  is  bound  to  hold  herself  sacred  to.  It  is  only  the  woman 
who  knows  that  this  is  true,  even  before  motherhood  teaches  her 
monogamy's  significance  to  society.  Any  man  may  give  her  a 
child,  but  only  one  can  give  her  what  even  more  than  that  bless- 
ing, her  soul  and  her  body  hunger  for.  Yes,  it  was  clear  enough 
to  her  now.  This  knowledge  (instinct,  rather),  far  more  than 
custom,  or  any  feeble  clinging  to  the  outward  forms  of  respect- 
ability— this  it  was  that  kept  so  many  neglected  wives  and  single 
women  chaste.  They  cannot  help  feeling:  'If  I  do  not  weary — 
if  I  am  not  false,  he  will  surely  come.'  They  look  abroad,  and 
they  do  not  see  him.  The  years  go  by,  and  they  will  presently 
be  old;  but  waiting  so  they  prove  their  faith. 

Staring  out  to  the  grey  sailless  sea,  she  faced  the  truth,  for- 
mulated it  once  for  all.  We  are  each  in  the  prison  of  our  sex,  we 


2i8  A  DARK  LANTERN 

women.  The  tragic  thing — the  glad  thing,  too — is  that  to  each 
prison  is  a  single  key.  And  the  man  who  holds  it  may  never  even 
see  the  outer  walls  behind  which  we  wait. 

'Nevertheless,  we  wait,'  she  said  in  her  heart. 

***** 

Thoughts  like  these  are  haggard  company,  though  they  wear 
their  weariness  with  a  certain  grace. 

What,  precisely,  had  been  in  his  mind  when  at  the  last  he  gave 
her  that  'coarse  counsel'?  It  flashed  over  her — there  could  be 
no  greater  proof  of  her  irremediable  love  for  the  man,  than  that 
she  could  throw  such  an  epithet  at  him,  and  yet  find  him  stand- 
ing firm,  unshaken  by  so  much  as  a  hair,  on  his  pedestal  in  her 
heart.  And  all  her  life  she  had  been  called  fastidious,  hyper- 
sensitive. Suppose  any  other  man  had  dared  speak  so!  No  pale- 
ness now — her  face  a  flame  at  the  mere  imagining.  But  Garth 
Vincent — he  might  say  what  he  would.  She  belonged  to  him. 
Many  a  wife  belonged  less  to  her  husband,  than  she  belonged  to 
this  man  who  had  never  shown  a  sign  of  affection,  or  even  of 
ordinary  sensitiveness  to  the  fact  that  she  was  a  woman. 
***** 

Three  weeks  had  gone.  Was  Time  helping  her  ?  Not  a  whit. 
Still  he  coloured  all  the  world.  Abandoning  herself  to  her  dreams, 
she  said  to  her  pillow:  'Of  what  use  to  fight? — he  has  got  into 
my  blood.' 

There  were  moods  in  which  she  persuaded  herself  that  it  would 
all  come  right.  Even  if  he  had  come  to  care  for  her,  he  could 
never  have  told  her  so,  she  was  sure,  while  she  was  under  his 
care — his  patient.  She  had  never  heard  the  etiquette  of  such 
a  situation  discussed,  but  she  felt  it  would  be  his  view,  inflexibly 
adhered  to.  So  he  might,  all  the  time,  have  been  caring  for  her 
and  still  have  made  no  sign.  Should  she  go  back  and  see  ?  Even 
if  (as  was  more  probable,  she  confessed)  he  did  not  yet  care,  why 
should  he  not  come  to?  Men  had  not  found  it  hard.  Evidently 
his  distrust  of  woman  was  deep,  his  contempt  ready.  Evidently 
he  had  suffered  at  their  hands.  'But  I  live  alone,'  he  had  told 
her.  And  the  workers  under  him  had  said,  'there  is  no  lonelier 
man.'  And  yet  he  was  human — ah,  very,  very  human. 
***** 

Driving  past  the  pier  one  morning,  she  saw  the  young  Duchess 


A  DARK  LANTERN  219 

of  Worcester  afoot — alone.  Katharine  stopped  the  victoria  and 
greeted  her.  'I  am  worn  out  with  nursing,'  she  said,  and  in  truth 
looked  it.  '  George  is  no  better,'  and  they  talked  of  the  sad  case 
of  a  young  and  gallant  soldier  whose  life  was  crushed,  almost 
extinguished,  not  upon  the  field  of  battle,  but  in  a  South  African 
fever  camp.  As  his  wife  talked  on,  Katharine  found  herself 
asking,  '  Who  sent  him  here  ? ' 

'Nobody.  I  felt  he  was  being  killed  in  London,  and  in  a  fit 
of  desperation  I  brought  him  away.  And  you've  been  rather  ill 
yourself.' 

'Tired  chiefly — and  my  heart,  you  know ' 

'Yes,  I  remember.' 

Katharine  was  so  tempted  to  ask  if  they  had  tried  consulting 
Garth  Vincent,  that  she  said  as  little  as  possible,  hardly  dared 
open  her  lips,  in  truth,  lest  the  name  should  jump  out.  'Who  has 
the  Duke  consulted  ?'  One  name  after  another.  Not  his.  They 
parted  with  a  plan  to  meet  and  walk  next  day,  'if  George  can 
spare  me.' 

The  following  morning  Katharine  drove  out  the  mile  and  a  half 
to  the  villa  they  had  taken.  The  Duchess  was  in  better  case. 
He  had  slept  better.  Katharine  heard  the  good  news  with  a  lack 
of  enthusiasm  that  shamed  her.  They  walked  an  hour,  talking 
of  common  friends,  and  somewhat  of  Katharine's  poem  (the  first 
written  '  In  Isolation,'  as  she  called  the  October  sonnet)  which  had 
just  been  published.  The  Duchess  had  a  pretty  taste  in  literature, 
and  considerable  acquaintance  with  the  poets.  Things  she  said 
that  morning  made  her  companion  thrill  with  an  exquisite  joy:  the 
joy  of  seeing  that  some  instructed  and  sensitive  soul  has  caught  and 
shared  your  mood  of  passion  or  of  insight,  has  felt  the  fine  blend- 
ing of  pleasure  and  surprise  at  some  felicity  of  phrase,  or  a  rhyme, 
that  came  like  a  gift  of  God,  smiting  one  with  the  sudden  gladness 
that  other  treasure-seekers  know,  when  in  some  midnight  cave 
they  stumble  on  a  heap  of  gold.  Under  very  different  conditions 
Katharine  was  to  remember  and  be  fired  afresh  by  the  Duchess's 
enthusiasm.  Just  now,  not  poetry,  but  life,  called  trumpet- 
tongued. 

The  next  day  the  Duchess  was  to  drive  into  Ventnor  for  Kath- 
arine. But  instead  came  a  note: 

He  is  worse.    I  dare  not  leave  him.    I  am  distracted.     Won't 


220  A  DARK  LANTERN 

you  come  and  lunch  here  ?  Katharine  carried  a  clear  plan  out  to 
the  ugly  villa  that  grey  morning — a  plan  that  filled  her  world 
with  sunlight,  and  set  her  eyes  to  shining  behind  her  veil. 

'Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  very  frightened.  We  seem  to  have  tried 
everything.'  Katharine  held  herself  back  by  main  force  from 
crying  out,  'Fool!  You  haven't  tried  the  only  thing  that  can 
avail!' — looked  merely  sympathetic,  thoughtful.  Some  minutes 
later,  'It's  considered  a  dangerous  thing,'  she  said,  'recommend- 
ing doctors,  but  you  haven't  tried  mine,  I  believe.' 

'Yours?' 

'Yes— Garth  Vincent.' 

'Oh,  I  remember  hearing  you  had  been  in  his  hands.  But 

I've  been  so  absorbed Yes,  of  course.  A — did  you  like 

him?' 

'Vincent?    Well,  "like"  is  perhaps  hardly  the  word.' 

'So  I  hear,'  laughed  the  Duchess.  'People  either  say  "genius" 
and  roll  their  eyes  mysteriously,  or  else  they  say  'charlatan"  and 
curse.' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  think  I  do  either.     What  lovely  mimosa ! ' 

'Of  course  he's  been  in  our  minds  many  times,  but ' 

'Your  other  doctors  have  dissuaded  you.    They  would.' 

'Well,  are  you  glad  you  went  to  him?' 

'Glad?    Oh  yes.' 

'He  did  you  good?' 

'I'm  a  new  creature.  And  I  was  a  specially  baffling  case. 
He's  had  the  greatest  success  with  troubles  like  the  Duke's.' 

'Yes,  yes,  so  I've  said  to  George.  We've  even  been  upon  the 

point '  The  harassed  wife  put  question  after  question  for  the 

next  half-hour. 

Twice  Katharine  made  a  move  to  go.  'You  must  be  tired. 
I'm  sure  you  ought  to  lie  down.' 

'No.  No.  You  must  tell  me  all  you  can  about  Dr.  Vincent.' 
Katharine  sat  calm  and  self-possessed  to  all  appearance,  speak- 
ing dispassionate  sentences  about  the  great  specialist.  But  she 
chose  her  words  not  only,  not  chiefly,  for  their  air  of  discrimina- 
tion and  their  coolness.  She  spared  no  art  to  make  them  effectual, 
while  they  seemed  so  measured  and  judicial.  She  changed  the 
subject  now  and  then,  but  at  junctures  that  made  her  sure  the 
Duchess  would  return  to  it  forthwith. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  221 

The  next  day:  'I  wrote  to  Dr.  Vincent  yesterday,'  was  the 
Duchess's  greeting.  'I  can't  think  why  he  doesn't  wire  when  he 
will  come.  I  asked  him  to.' 

'Probably  waiting  to  see  if  he  can  manage  to  leave  his  London 
patients  long  enough.'  Katharine  allowed  herself  to  be  per- 
suaded to  stay  to  luncheon  again.  She  felt  she  could  not  go  home 
without  knowing  what  his  answer  was.  It  was  there  by  three 
o'clock. 

'He'll  come  down  to-morrow,'  said  her  hostess,  reading. 

Saturday!  That  was  what  Katharine  had  expected.  'Does 
he  say  what  train  ? ' 

'No.  Let's  look  them  out.  I  hope  he  won't  just  fly  in  and 
fly  out,  as  they  say  he  usually  does.' 

'That's  his  great  fault,  I  think,'  admitted  Katharine.  'But, 
as  one  of  his  nurses  says,  he  can  tell  more  about  your  inside  by 
looking  at  you,  than  others  can  by  cutting  you  open— however,  a 
new  patient  doesn't,  can't,  realize  how  miraculous  he  is  at  diag- 
nosis. He  is  apt  to  lessen  a  person's  confidence  by  so  mucn 
despatch.' 

'Oh,  my  dear,'  the  anxious  face  was  full  of  sudden  alarm. 
'  George  will  be  sure  to  think ' 

'Why,'  interrupted  Katharine,  'why  don't  you  nail  him?' 

'Who?' 

'Vincent.' 

'I  wish  I  could.' 

'Wire  and  ask  him  to  dine.' 

'Will  that  do  it?'  she  smiled.  Katharine's  loyalty  took  quick 
alarm. 

'He's  no  more  likely  to  say  yes  to  you,  my  dear,  than  to  any- 
body else — but  he  must  dine  somewhere,  and  time  will  be  a  con- 
sideration.' They  concocted  a  telegram. 

'You'll  come  and  help  me  out,  won't  you?  I  feel  rather  ner- 
vous— after  all  I've  heard — such  contradictory  things.  And 
there's  so  much  at  stake.'  Her  eyes  suddenly  filled. 

Katharine  stayed  on,  upon  her  urging,  from  hour  to  hour,  till 
it  was  too  late  to  go  home  to  dine.  As  she  passed  through  the 
hall  on  the  way  to  the  carriage  at  half-past  nine,  she  saw  a  paper 
that  looked  familiar  lying  on  the  table.  'Isn't  that  your  tele- 
gram?' It  was.  The  flustered  new  footman  had  forgotten  it. 


222  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Katharine  consoled  the  Duchess  by  saying  she  would  take  it  her- 
self, and  so  make  sure  of  its  going.  'How  good  you  are!  I'll 
never  forget  what  you've  been  to  me  to-day.  When  will  you  come 
to-morrow  ? — as  early  as  you  can.  By  eleven  ? ' 

'If  you  like.' 

'You're  an  angel.' 

***** 

'I've  had  no  answer  about  dining,'  were  the  Duchess's  first 
words  when  Katharine  reappeared. 

'Then  he'll  come.  But  when?  Better  have  each  train  met.' 
And  orders  were  given.  The  Duchess  longed  to  ask  Katharine 
to  go  herself  to  meet  and  to  make  sure  of  him.  Katharine  longed 
to  propose  it.  Neither  spoke  of  such  a  thing.  Katharine  con- 
soled herself  by  a  vision  of  him  at  dinner.  Saw  him  in  imagina- 
tion throw  off  his  'doctor's  gown' — saw  him  smiling,  friendly — 
saw  him  after,  left  alone  with  her,  while  their  hostess  went  away 
to  the  sick-room. 

'I've  come  to  feel  that  everything  depends  upon  this  visit,' 
said  the  Duchess,  nervously  walking  up  and  down  before  the 
fire. 

'Yes,'  said  Katharine.  The  sound  of  carriage  wheels.  They 
stopped.  Footsteps  in  the  hall — in  the  hall? — surely  he  came 
walking  in  over  Katharine's  Dereham  heart. 

Indeed  yes,  everything  depended  upon  this  visit. 

The  footman  was  announcing  'Dr.  Vincent.'  The  Duchess 
went  forward.  They  spoke,  and  Vincent's  eye  fell  on  the  other 
figure.  Katharine  rose  up,  and  gave  her  hand.  'You're  sur- 
prised ? ' 

'I  thought  you  were  at  Torquay.  You're  looking  better;'  and 
he  turned  sharply  away  from  her  to  the  Duchess,  who  was  saying: 

'Won't  you  have  tea  or  something  before  you ' 

'Oh  no — no,  thank  you' — in  so  brusque  a  fashion  that  Kath- 
arine exchanged  a  hasty  look  of  encouragement  with  her  hostess 
as  much  as  to  say:  'That's  nothing.' 

'I'll  go  up  at  once.' 

'I  hope  you're  going  to  stay  and  dine,'  said  the  anxious  wife, 
leading  the  way  to  the  door. 

'I'm  sorry.  It's  quite  impossible — I  must  get  back  to-night. 
Unless '  He  left  it,  but  Katharine  felt  the  only  thing  that 


A  DARK  LANTERN  223 

would  keep  him  would  be  mortal  illness,  and  her  hope  died. 
She  sat  alone  in  the  fire-lit  drawing-room,  till  the  Duchess  came 
back. 

'He  wouldn't  let  me  be  there,  too — says  he'll  see  me  afterwards.' 
They  tried  to  talk  of  indifferent  things. 

'I  wish  we  had  wood  fires  here.     Don't  you  love  them?' 

'Yes,  the  scent  of  burning  wood He  is  good-looking,' 

said  the  Duchess. 

'  Better  looking  in  this  light  than  he  is  by  day.' 

'I  don't  believe  you  like  him.' 

'Oh  yes,  I  do.' 

'/  do.  And  if  he  cures  George  I  shall  adore  him.'  Katharine 
smiled:  but  she  was  heavy-hearted.  She  must  have  speech  of 
him,  but  how— how?  'He  says  you  look  well.  I  don't  agree 
with  him.  You  are  tired  to-day.' 

'I  believe  I  am.     I  haven't  been  sleeping  as  I  ought.' 

'Didn't  you  sleep  last  night?' — in  that  way  in  which  such 
questions  are  put  to  all,  save  the  one  or  two,  who  sit  at  the  heart 
of  life. 

'No,  I  didn't  sleep.  I  can't  think  why.  Do  you  know,  I've 
half  a  notion  not  to  stay  and  dine,  since  you  won't  need  me  now. 
It  will  save  those  poor  horses  ^f  yours  if  I  go  back  to  town  with 
Vincent.  It  will  save  them  another  trip.' 

When  Vincent  came  down,  Katharine,  leaving  him  alone  with 
Duchess,  went  to  make  ready.  Five  minutes  later  she  stood 
buttoning  her  gloves  in  the  hall.  The  drawing-room  door  was 
shut;  the  sound  of  voices  came  muffled  through.  Katharine  stood 
there  a  long  while,  buttoning  and  unbuttoning  the  long  gray  suede. 
Is  he  expecting  me  back?  Is  he  spinning  out  the  talk  that  he 
may  see  me  again  ?  Does  he  care  the  least  in  the  world  ?  Wouldn't 
he  stay  and  dine  if  he  did?  What  am  I  going  to  say  to  him? 
What  will  he  say  to  me  ?  She  opened  the  front-door  and  looked 
out.  The  carriage-lamps  shone  through  a  white  fog.  The  night 
was  very  raw.  The  coachman  loomed  gigantic  in  his  great  bear- 
skin cape.  A  door  was  opening  behind  her.  Vincent  came  out, 
followed  by  the  Duchess.  'Yes,  the  sooner  the  better  for  him,' 
he  was  saying. 

'Then  we  will  go  up  on  Monday.'  He  was  putting  on  his 
cout.  '  And  you'll  come  in ' 


224  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Tuesday  at  three.     Good-bye.' 

A  sudden  absurd  shyness  seized  Katharine.  She  was  ashamed 
of  standing  there,  hatted  and  gloved,  so  obviously  waiting  for 
him.  He  turned,  looking  for  his  umbrella,  caught  sight  of  her, 
and  stared.  The  footman  presented  the  umbrella,  while  the 
Duchess  was  saying:  'Miss  Dereham  is  going  back  to  Ventnor, 
too.' 

They  were  bowling  along  the  road,  lights  twinkling  in  upon 
them  dimly — a  ghostly  white  mist  enveloping  the  world. 

'How  do  you  find  the  Duke?' 

'Oh,  he's  been  doing  all  the  wrong  things,  so,  of  course ' 

Then  a  silence,  wrapping  them  coldly  like  a  spiritual  counterpart 
of  the  fog. 

Suddenly  Katharine  said:  'What  an  odd  life  yours  must  be!' 

'Why?' 

'To  come  to  know  people  so  dreadfully  well  for  a  little  while, 
so  much  better  than  their  nearest  and  dearest — and  then  to  see 
them  drop  out  of  your  sight  like  a  stone  into  a  well.' 

He  said  nothing;  and  she,  acting  on  an  impulse  too  swift  to 
parry:  'I  wonder  what  you're  like  outside  of  your  profession?' 

'Oh,  everybody  is  pretty  much  alike.' 

'I  don't  find  it  so.  But  many  people  wear  their  experience 
writ  large.  About  most,  you  can  at  all  events  get  an  idea.  But 
I've  no  notion  what  your  history  is.  I'm  ignorant  even  of  the 
outlines.'  Her  voice  had  begun  to  shake.  With  an  effort  she 
spoke  more  lightly  and  more  firmly.  'But  that's  because  I  don't 
know  anyone  who  knows  you — except  as  a  doctor.' 

'No  one  does  know  me — except  as  a  doctor.' 

'Who  of  your  family  are  living?' 

'Nobody.' 

Why  did  he  not  tell  her  of  the  step-brother?  'Is  everybody 
dead?' 

'Pretty  well  everybody.    All  those  nearest  to  me.' 

'  Where  did  you  go  to  school  ? ' 

'I  went  to  a  good  many  schools.     I  never  stayed  at  one.' 

'You  studied  medicine?' 

'Yes,  that  was  quite  late.' 

'But  what  did  you  do  with  the  years  when  other  people  are 
in  school?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  225 

'I've  told  you  I  was  always  running  away.' 

'Where  did  you  run  to?' 

'The  East:  India,  Japan.  The  West:  Mexico,  Chili,  the 
Argentine.'  Then  quite  suddenly,  'Oh,  I've  been  everywhere. 
I've  seen  it  all,'  and  his  tone  did  not  endorse  the  Maker's  verdict 
that  it  was  good. 

'I  don't  believe  you've  seen  it  all.  I  believe  you've  seen  only 
the  worst  of  many  things.  Especially  of  women.' 

'What  makes  you  think  that?' 

'I'm  sure  of  it.' 

He  laughed  disagreeably.  'They  can't  humbug  me  as  they 
used  to.' 

'Ah!  The  very  word  Woman,  for  you  means  deceit.  Yes, 
you  must  have  had  a  bad  time.'  He  looked  out  of  the  window 
a  moment  into  the  fog,  and  then  drew  his  head  in.  But  he  said 
nothing.  'It's  rather  a  pity,  I  think,  to  have  known  so  few  nice 
women  that  you ' 

'Not  many  "nice,"'  he  interrupted.     'But  I've  known  plenty.' 

Katharine  remembered  some  of  the  smart  women  who  fre- 
quented him.  Does  he  think  we  are  all  like  Imogen  Bailey  and 
Anne  Minton? 

As  if  he  heard  the  silent  question:  'They're  very  much  alike.' 

'Who  are?' 

'Women.    They  all  have  the  same  constitutional  failing.' 

'And  that  is ?' 

But  he  did  not  wait  for  the  question.  'They  begin  to  lie  the 
minute  they  come  into  the  consulting-room.  And  they  lie  till 
I've  seen  the  last  of  them.  Lie  about  their  habits,  their  age, 
their  past — even,  by  God!  about  their  symptoms!  Lie  to  me!' 
and  as  a  street  light  for  a  moment  faintly  lit  up  the  dark  interior 
of  the  carriage,  she  saw  the  satirical  grin  on  his  face, — 'as  if  I 
were  one  of  their  little  tame-cat-men,  or  artist  idiots,  and  couldn't 
read  the  facts  under  the  powder  on  their  faces  and  under  the 
skin  of  their  rotten  bodies.' 

Katharine,  shrinking  into  her  corner,  had  a  sudden  glimpse  of 
a  portion  of  that  history  she  had  failed  to  elicit.  Here  was  a 
man  who  spent  his  life  in  the  search  after,  and  the  practice  of, 
accuracy.  The  deceit  of  the  less  admirable,  the  vagueness  of 
even  the  better  sort  among  women,  had  added  to  his  misogyny 

15 


226  A  DARK  LANTERN 

and  to  his  brutality.  The  thing  that  he  hated  most,  he  was 
doomed  oftenest  to  encounter. 

'And  then  they  complain  of  me  because  /  don't  lie,'  he  burst 
out  suddenly.  She  was  conscious  that  he  had  turned,  and  was 
trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  face,  as  the  now  frequent  lights 
shone  in  an  instant  and  then  flitted  by.  'It's  all  very  well,'  he 
went  on,  as  if  in  answer  to  some  criticism,  'all  very  well  to  say 
truth  is  compatible  with  courtesy.  In  a  perfect  world  it  would  be 
so,  in  a  damned  world  like  this,  full  of  lying,  nervous  people — 

'I  never  lied  to  you,'  came  a  low,  quiet  voice  out  of  Katharine's 
corner.  As  he  did  not  answer  at  once:  'Did  you  ever  think  I 
did?' 

'I  never  caught  you,'  he  said  discontentedly. 

They  were  rattling  into  the  station. 

'What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  here?'  he  asked 
suddenly. 

'Trying  to  get  strong.' 

'How?' 

'With  the  help  of  sleep,  air,  and  the  little  sun  there  is.' 

'You're  not  alone?' 

'Yes,  I  am  alone.'    The  carriage  had  stopped. 

'That's  bad.'     The  groom  opened  the  door. 

'I  want  to  get  a  paper,'  she  said  blindly,  longing  to  postpone 
that  loneliness  that  he  so  truly  said  was  'bad.'  She  went  to  the 
news-stand,  and  bought  one  thing  after  another.  He  followed 
her,  and  stood  looking  on.  She  had  her  arms  full  now,  and  no 
excuse  to  linger. 

'Well,  I  suppose  I  must  say  good-bye.' 

'I'll  put  you  in  the  carriage,'  he  said  with  unexpected  civility. 
As  they  walked  back,  Katharine  dropped  one  of  her  papers. 
He  picked  it  up.  They  stood  a  moment  under  the  station  lamp. 

'Don't  come  any  farther,'  she  said  desperately,  'you — you'll  only 
have  time  to  get  some  of  their  horrid  tea  before  your  train  goes.' 

'Let  me  see  your  face.' 

'My — my  face?'  Her  head  was  drooping,  she  had  an  aching 
wish  to  hide  it. 

'Yes,  hold  up  your  face.'  She  did  as  she  was  bid,  with  a 
sudden  summoning  of  pride.  But  something  in  the  bold  eyes 
frightened  her.  Involuntarily  she  lowered  her  own. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  227 

'Look  at  me.'    Was  it  the  doctor  spoke,  or  was  it She 

lifted  the  down-dropped  lids  an  instant,  but  shrank  before  some- 
thing in  the  look,  she  could  not  be  sure  what,  but  something 
— 'Oh,  God  in  Heaven,  give  it  a  name!  Let  me,  at  least,  know!' 
And  even  while  she  prayed,  she  was  in  full  flight,  crying  over  her 
shoulder  'Good-bye.' 


CHAPTER  II 

'WHY  did  he  want  to  see  my  face?  What  was  he  looking  for 
there  ?  What  did  he  find  ? '  Half  the  night  the  questions  hunted 
her,  up  the  hills  and  down  the  dales  of  tossing  wakefulness.  'Oh, 
he  cares!  He  cares!'  she  would  say  from  time  to  time,  and  all 
her  blood  made  holiday.  'But  why  then.  ...  Is  he  afraid  to 
risk  it  ?  Does  he  remember  the  old  rebuff  ?  Can  he  still  be  un- 
certain of  me  .  .  .  think  I'm  ready  to  play  with  him  ?  No — no, 
he  is  just  indifferent.  A  little  curious.  But  he  doesn't  care  at  all.' 

The  blackness  of  that  knowledge  would  envelop  her  wholly  for 
a  while.  Then,  here  a  rift,  and  there  a  rent,  through  which  would 
shine  a  little  light. 

'Even  with  all  the  illness,  I'm  not  hideous.  I  care  so  much, 
that  I  shall  make  him  care.  I'll  go  back  to  town.' 

And  in  the  morning  she  said  again:  'I'll  go  back  to  town!' 
But  where?  Bertie  would  be  installed  at  Peterborough  House. 
Blanche  in  Egypt.  Where  should  she  go?  The  world  was 
curiously  lonely;  but  what  did  it  matter?  After  all,  she  wanted 
only  one  person  among  London's  millions,  and  him  she  would 
find  at  his  post. 

While  making  her  arrangements  for  returning  and  putting  her 
fate  to  the  test,  Katharine  definitely  set  aside  the  contemplated 
plan  of  establishing  herself  at  once  in  some  attractive  house,  send- 
ing to  Paris  for  her  mother's  beautiful  old  cousin,  the  Marquise 
de  Courcelles,  who  was  willing  to  exile  herself  from  France,  she 
wrote,  for  the  sake  of  being  with  Katharine. 

Easy  enough  for  Miss  Dereham  to  surround  herself  with  the 
glamour,  that  in  London  so  easily  aureoles  a  woman  such  as  she. 
Easy  enough  when  the  spell  was  wrought,  to  bid  Vincent  come 
and  see  how  he  withstood  it. 

228 


A  DARK  LANTERN  229 

But  Katharine  realized  that  it  would  be  an  impossible  vulgarity 
that  she  should  try  to  play  upon,  to  dazzle  and  'lead  on'  this 
man.  '  A  shallower  soul  than  mine,'  she  said  to  herself, '  would  feel 
the  impossibility  of  that,  after  all  those  days  that  there  alone  in 
Peterborough  House,  we  fought  the  great  fight  against  disease. 
Even  if  he  were  willing,  I  simply  cannot  receive  him  as  I  receive 
other  men — still  less  can  I  lay  traps  for  love.  No,  not  even  for 
his.  But  I  can  go  back  to  town.  I  can  send  for  him  or  go  to 
him — give  him  at  least  the  chance  to  speak.  What  was  he  look- 
ing for  in  my  face?  Perhaps  he'll  tell  me.  To-morrow!  To- 
morrow I  shall  be  in  London — his  London  and  mine.' 

Only  one  more  day  in  this  windswept  little  house,  with  its 
balcony  looking  out  upon  the  passing  ships. 

How  many  hours  she  had  spent  on  that  chill  perch!  This  was 
the  last  time  she  would  sit,  watching  the  pale  winter  sunshine 
flicker  on  the  cliffs,  and  fall  in  lines  of  flecked  brightness  on  the 
ruffled  sea.  She  drew  her  furs  closer  about  her  throat,  and  leaned 
over  the  balcony  rail  to  watch  some  tiny  children,  climbing  up  a 
steep  place,  jutting  over  the  sands.  Now  they  stood  on  the  crest 
of  the  height,  and  Katharine's  gaze  moved  townwards.  Far  down 
the  one  bit  of  straight  street,  Natalie  coming  home  with  the  fruit 
and  tea-cake. 

Suddenly  from  behind  the  chair  a  sound;  the  opening  of  the 
glass  door,  and  the  landlady's  quavering  voice:  'If  you  please, 
Miss,  a  gentleman  is  here  to  see  you.'  There  was  only  one  man 
in  the  world,  and  he  was  here!  Katharine  turned  sharply  as  the 
rusty  figure  of  the  woman  drew  back.  Every  drop  of  blood  went 
hurrying  to  meet  him — making  festival  to  the  tune:  Garth  Vincent! 
Garth!  Garth! 

But  time  and  tune  were  rudely  changed,  as  she  saw  what 
presence  filled  the  little  French  window. 

'Anton!'  After  speaking  the  name  she  did  not  stir,  but  sai 
with  wide  eyes  staring  at  the  big  figure,  to  which  the  long  straight 
lines  of  the  overcoat  gave  back  some  of  the  old  elegance — noted 
how  he  dwarfed  the  room  behind  him,  the  whole  house;  noted 
the  broad  satisfaction  of  the  face,  took  in  even  the  elongated 
white  paper  parcel  that,  lightly  held,  dropped  downward  from 
thumb  and  finger.  He  stooped  and  came  out  upon  the  balcony, 
smiling  gaily. 


230 


A  DARK  LANTERN 


'Ah!'  he  composed  his  features.  'How  pale  you  are!'  He 
looked  at  her  tenderly,  her  hand  in  his,  and  then  glanced  back  to 
make  sure  the  rusty  female  had  departed. 

'  Dear  child,  it  was  very  wrong  of  you  not  to  write  to  me.  And 
cruel  not  to  let  me  come  and  nurse  you  back  to  health.  Why 
have  you  taken  it  into  your  head  that  just  because  you  are  ill  I 
am  to  be  cut  off  from  you?  I  can't  have  that,  you  know!' — all 
in  a  breath,  smiling  caressingly  and  detaining  the  hand  that  he 
had  taken.' 

'I  haven't  been  seeing  my  friends.' 

'Your  friends!'  he  laughed  indulgently,  and  stooped  to  lay  the 
white  paper  parcel  on  the  long  box  of  dry  earth,  that  fronted  the 
balcony  railing,  and  wherein  three  forlorn  dead  geraniums  held 
fast  a  few  brown  leaves.  Fresh  green  stems  stuck  out  from  one 
end  of  the  paper — stems  with  rose  thorns  on  them.  How  truly 
German!  He  was  bringing  her  a  Strausschen  as  any  Bursch 
might  his  Madchen. 

But  behind  the  thought,  unconsciously  prompting  it,  was  the 
feeling  that  Vincent,  had  he  come  on  such  an  errand  as  she  knew 
had  brought  the  Prince,  Vincent  would  as  soon  have  brought  a 
bomb-shell  as  a  bunch  of  roses.  She  had  watched  Anton  bending 
stiffly  down  to  lay  the  parcel  on  the  flower-box,  and  the  unromantic 
thought  occurred  to  her:  For  a  man  to  go  in  so  at  the  hip  .  .  . 
he  must  be  laced.  But  even  if  she  were  wrong  about  that,  there 
was  the  drop  of  the  heavy  jowl,  the  straw-coloured  hair  thinning 
at  the  top,  the  sodden  look  of  the  man  who  has  overfed,  and  over- 
slept, and  overdrunk,  and  overdone  all  pleasure,  and  wholly  missed 
the  tonic  of  hard  work  and  the  fining  down  of  self-discipline. 

'  Do  they  know  who  you  are,  here  ? '  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  'Incog.'  Now  he  was  standing  close  to 
her  again,  looking  down  at  her  with  a  smile.  'It  shan't  hurt  you 
to  be  with  me.'  It  was  manifest  that  in  his  mind,  the  only  possible 
explanation  of  her  evasion  of  him,  was  that  she  feared  herself  not 
sufficiently  strong  to  bear  the  rapture  of  his  presence.  Either  that 
or  else  (his  eyes,  gentle  and  full  of  genuine  pity,  were  searching  the 
white  face),  even  more  pardonable,  in  his  mind,  her  fear  that  she 
was  not  yet  in  sufficient  good  looks  to  meet  'the  most  fastidious 
eye  in  Europe.'  'Poor  child,  you've  been  dreadfully  ill.' 

'No,  I  can't  honestly  say  I  have.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  231 

'Nonsense!  I  know  better.' 

'You  judge  by  my  looks?' 

'I  judge  by  your  inhuman  treatment  of  me.'  Then,  as  she 
offered  no  excuse:  'You  look  adorable!  I  like  you  even  better 
pale.  But  it's  time  I  came  to  see  after  you.  Why  do  you  sit  out 
here  in  December  trying  to  catch  your  death  of  cold  ?  Let  us  go 
inside.' 

'No,'  she  said,  'I  like  it  here.     The  air  does  me  good.' 

'Air!  Yes,  if  it  were  Algiers,  or  even  Arcachon  yonder.'  He 
shivered.  But  Katharine  laid  her  elbow  on  the  railing,  and  sup- 
ported her  cheek  on  her  hand.  With  obvious  unwillingness,  gin- 
gerly even,  he  took  the  other  seat,  a  rusty  iron  chair  not  over  clean. 

'Are  you  afraid  of  being  faint  if  you  go  inside?'  he  asked, 
scanning  her  marble  features  for  sign  of  over  excitement. 

'No,  not  exactly  faint.' 

'H'm!'  He  gave  it  up,  dismissed  it  in  favour  of  something 
even  more  pressing.  'Katharine,'  he  leaned  forward,  'I've 
just  been  to  Waldenstein  and  seen  my  brother.' 

'Well,  and  how  is  Prince  Heinrich?' 

'Less  unreasonable  as  he  grows  older.  Less  disposed  to 
dictate.  He's  got  four  boys  of  his  own  now  to  look  after — and 
to  succeed  him.' 

'Ah!'  said  Katharine. 

'And  he  always  admired  you  immensely.' 

'He  is  very  good.' 

'No,  he  isn't  good.  But  all  the  same,  it  counts  for  a  great 
deal.  He's  quite  of  our  view  at  last.'  Katharine  stared  at  the 
dead  geraniums. 

'I  saw  the  old  Chancellor,  too,  as  I  came  through  Berlin.  It 
can  all  be  managed.'  Her  face  was  absolutely  expressionless. 
A  little  wind  had  come  up  out  of  the  sea.  Suddenly  the  Prince 
of  Breitenlohe- Waldenstein  rose  to  his  feet:  'I  can't  talk  of  it 
out  here  in  this  truly  English  chill — do  come  inside.'  She  lifted 
her  head,  and  let  the  hand  that  had  supported  it  fall  and  fasten 
on  the  iron  railing  with  an  instinct  of  anchoring  herself. 

'  I  am  sorry  you  find  it  disagreeable  here,  but  I  never  sit  in  that 
little  room.' 

His  look  dulled.  He  was  ill-accustomed  to  find  his  wishes 
unregarded.  But  as  his  eye  fell  again  upon  Katharine  he  seemed 


232  A  DARK  LANTERN 

to  forget  the  slight  affront.  'No  wonder.  What  a  place  for 
you!'  With  a  backward  glance  of  suspicion  he  took  the  rusty 
chair  again.  'Dear  child' — he  laid  his  hand  on  hers — 'I've 
come  to  carry  you  away  with  me.  Everything  is  en  train — 

'Anton,'  she  began  hurriedly — but  his  voice,  low,  hurried, 
eager,  struck  in  and  silenced  her. 

'You  think  it's  soon,  but  there's  no  need  for  anything  to  be 
announced,  you  know,  until  we  like.' 

Ah!  she  had  expected  that.     But  she  showed  no  sign. 

'At  the  same  time,  even  if  it  should  come  out — all  the  world 
knows  that  Margaretha  and  I  never  got  on  together.'  He  made 
a  motion  with  the  left  hand — the  one  still  tightly  gloved  and 
having  the  stuffed-to-bursting  aspect  of  fat  fingers  forced  into 
exactly-fitting  dogskin.  The  gesture  seemed  an  appeal  to  all 
reasonable  minds  to  admit  that  the  fact  of  having  made  his  late 
wife  unhappy  was  excuse  sufficient  for  slighting  her  memory. 
'I  shall  take  you  back  to  London  this  afternoon.'  She  started 
and  opened  her  lips;  but  again  he  hurried  on,  'As  I  say,  every- 
thing is  en  train ' 

'I  cannot  go,  Anton,'  she  struck  in.  'I — I  cannot  even  dis- 
cuss it.' 

'You  don't  understand,  dear.'  He  smiled  indulgently,  but 
he  straightened  his  military  back  and  lifted  his  handsome  chin. 
'I  want  you  to  be  my  wife.'  Then  as  Katharine's  white  face 
mounted  no  flush,  showed  no  radiance,  he  suddenly  bent  forward 
again,  and  scrutinized  her  as  one  does  a  person  of  whom  one  has 
heard  something  that  sheds  a  great  light — reversing  all  former 
views.  'You  haven't  taken  it  into  your  head  that  you're  going 
to  die?' 

Katharine  laughed,  with  more  of  bitterness  than  she  had  ever 
shown  him;  seeing  how  from  his  point  of  view,  if  she  would  not 
be  his  wife  there  could  be  only  one  reason.  But:  'I'm  likely  to 
live  as  long  as  anybody,'  she  said. 

'Then  what's  this  about  not  marrying!  Of  course  you'll 
marry  me.  Ah,  my  dear,  I  never  knew  what  happiness  was  till 
that  moment  came  when  I  was  free!' 

'Don't,  Anton,' — poor  dead  woman  who  had  given  him  thus, 
his  happiest  hour! 

'But  it  was  too  bad  to  have  you  hidden  away  from  me  in  a 


A  DARK  LANTERN  233 

sick-room,  and  that  outrageous  boor  of  a  doctor  who  had  hypno- 
tized the  servants — I  came  over,  you  know.' 

'You  camel    In  spite  of  my  warning.' 

'Of  course  I  came.' 

'Natalie  has  never  told  me!' 

'Had  her  orders,  I  suppose,  and  so  afraid  of  that  brute — 
but  my  coming  was  no  use.  I  never  had  such  an  experience  in 
my  life.'  He  brushed  his  sharp  upturned  moustachios  fiercely 
right  and  left.  'I  didn't  give  in  readily.  I  stopped  writing,  but 
I  came  a  second  time  after  Peterborough's  death.' 

'  Who  did  you  see  ? ' 

'It's  the  greatest  wonder  I  didn't  shoot  that  medical  man  of 
yours,'  he  said,  squaring  himself  in  the  little  iron  chair. 

Katharine  smiled  faintly.  'You  might  have  challenged  him  to 
a  duel' — a  delicious  picture.  Garth  Vincent  summoned  to 
deadly  combat,  by  the  most  accomplished  swordsman  in  Europe, 
and  responding  with  a  'Go  to  the  devil!'  or  something  equally 
elegant. 

'Challenge  a  pill -box!  Hardly.  But  that's  all  done  for.' 
Again  he  laid  his  right  hand  over  hers.  She  did  not  withdraw, 
but  with  the  other,  held  still  faster  to  the  cold  iron  of  the  railing. 
His  mouth  and  eyes  were  smiling — 'Thank  God,  you're  better, 
and  I'm  free ' 

'The  trouble  is,  Anton,  that  Pm  not  free.'  The  smile  did  not 
instantly  leave  his  face — it  yielded  little  by  little  to  bewilder- 
ment. 

'Not What,  in  the  name  of  God,  do  you  mean?' 

'Just  that.  I'm  not  any  longer  free.  I  belong  to  someone 
else.' 

'  You  belong — .  Someone  else  ?  I  won't  believe  it.  You're 
raving.'  Then  as  Katharine  said  nothing,  sat  there  with  the 
flush  in  her  cheeks  and  the  light  in  her  eyes,  that  he  had  waited 
for  in  vain  before:  'You  belong  to  me,'  he  said,  and  threw  back 
his  head. 

She  felt  for  an  instant  something  of  the  old  beauty  in  his  face; 
but  she  went  on  sadly,  quietly:  'It  is  only  fair  that  I  should  treat 
you  candidly,  though  I  haven't  told  anyone  else ' 

'Who  is  it?'  he  interrupted.  Katharine  had  no  idea  the 
caressing  voice  could  be  so  brusque.  '  Who  is  it  ? '  he  repeated. 


234  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'That,  I  am  not  bound  to  say.' 

'  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  consider  yourself  engaged 
— to  somebody  else?' 

'N — no.     That  is — the  man  is  free.' 

'I  don't  understand  you.' 

Her  eyes  sought  the  dead  geraniums,  and  rested  on  the  crumpled 
leaves.  'Don't  understand  how  a  woman  may  be  bound  and  a 
man  be  free?' 

'I  don't  in  the  very  least  understand  what  it  is  that  you're 
trying  to  tell  me.  But,'  he  added  hurriedly,  'I  don't  want  to. 
It's  fantastic — a  piece  of  delirium.  You  are  mine!'  Then  as 
she  lifted  her  changed  face  to  his,  he  cried  out  suddenly: 
'Katharine!'  and  she  saw  that  the  handsome  eyes  were  wet. 
'Why,  I've  loved  you  and  waited  for  you,  for  years.'  No  lover, 
the  most  steadfast  on  earth,  could  have  found  an  accent  more 
convincing  than  throbbed  through  this  last  of  the  many  pro- 
fessions of  his  faith.  But  she  was  hardly  at  the  pains  to  remind 
herself  anew  in  what  fashion  he  had  loved  and  waited.  What 
did  it  all  matter  now  ?  As  little  to  her  as  it  would  when  she  was 
dust. 

'Please  don't  speak  so  loud,'  she  had  said. 

'Not  free!  Did  you  really  say  not  free ?'  But  he  never  waited 
for  her  silent  affirmation.  'Then  he  must  release  you.  You 
must  tell  him  that  the  man  you  have  cared  for  since  you  were 

barely  out  of  the  schoolroom — is  only  now  able .  Tell  him 

you  didn't  know,  or  didn't  realize.  You  were  shut  away  in  a 
sick-room.  But  now  you've  seen  him  and  it's  all  different. 
Tell  him  he  must  release  you!' 

She  smiled  uneasily  as  a  sudden  vision  of  Vincent,  listening 
to  such  words,  mocked  at  her. 

'Poor  child!'  The  soft  voice  folded  her  again  like  some  warm 
garment.  'You  were  lonely  and  desperate.  I  don't  really 
blame  you.  But  it's  an  ugly  shock.  I  had  such  faith  in  you, 

dear.  However '  He  stood  up,  again  dwarfing  the  balcony 

with  his  bigness,  and  stopping  to  brush  some  iron  rust  off  his 
sleeve,  with  the  air  of  one  who  just  so  lightly  would  do  away 
with  any  impediment  in  the  way  of  his  plans.  'Fortunately,' 
he  said,  with  a  look  of  new  purpose  in  his  face,  'fortunately  I 
have  come  in  time,' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  235 

'You  are  at  least  eight  weeks  too  late.' 

His  face  was  suddenly  quite  ugly.  'You  don't  mean  that  you 
are  going  to  keep  a  promise  made  under  a  total  misapprehension.' 

'There  is  neither  promise  nor  misapprehension.' 

Again  bewilderment  fell  upon  him.  'Then  after  all  you  are 
free.' 

'A  woman  is  very  far  from  free  who  cares  as  I  care.' 

'For He  took  hold  of  the  railing  as  if  the  balcony  had 

begun  to  sway  and  swing — 'care  for  some  other — for  this  other 
man ' 

'For  the  other  man.' 

'Then  7 '  he  burst  out,  having  something  on  his  tongue  of 

which  he  obviously  repented  him  in  time.  He  changed  to: 
'And  yet  the  man,  if  I  remember,  is  free.'  He  had  gripped  hold 
of  his  self-control  again,  but  his  smile  was  far  from  pleasant. 

'Yes,  Anton,'  she  said  gently.  'He  does  not  even  know  I 
love  him.  At  least  I  think  he  does  not.  He  has  made  no  sign.' 

'Good  God!'  he  burst  out  again.  'Made  no  sign?  How  do 
you  know  then  that  he  will?' 

'I  wish  I  did  know.' 

'And  for  this — this  school-girl's  dream  you  are  throwing  me 
over ! ' 

'Why  don't  you  say  I  am  too  old  for  such  foolishness?  He 
would.' 

'He  would  appear  to  have  a  gracious  tongue!'  As  she  said 
nothing  he  looked  about  helplessly  right  and  left;  bewildered, 
like  one  who  wakes  to  find  himself  in  some  new  place  and  hunts 
for  a  clue  as  to  how  he  got  there.  His  wandering  attention  had 
the  air  of  being  suddenly  arrested  by  concern,  at  seeing  how 
the  paper  round  his  flowers  had  blown  open  at  the  end — how 
ruefully  the  roses  hung  their  beautiful  heads  over  the  rim  of  the 
flower-box.  Then,  as  with  an  effort,  turning  his  eyes  sharply 
back  to  Katharine's  moved,  excited  face,  and  finding  there  the 
clue :  '  How  is  this  interesting  little  story  going  to  end  ? '  he  asked. 

It  was  in  that  instant,  that  she  saw  with  all  the  vividness  of 
prophetic  vision,  that  her  waiting  would  be  vain.  For  whatever 
reason,  upon  such  slight  clue  as  she  had  had  in  mind  to  give  him, 
Garth  Vincent  would  never  speak.  For  whatever  reason,  never 
again  would  he  offer  her  his  love.  And  so  it  was,  that  being 


236  A  DARK  LANTERN 

called  on  to  formulate  her  ground  for  Hope,  she  first  saw  plain 
the  Hopelessness  that  waited  for  her. 

'I  have  no  more  idea  than  you  have  of  the  end.' 

'But  you  will  sacrifice  everything  to  waiting.' 

'Do  you  think  you  can  well  reproach  me  for  being  able  to 
do  that?' 

'Ach/'  he  cried  on  a  sudden,  dropping  his  glove.  'I  see! 
You're  punishing  me.  You  don't  really  care  for  this  man. 

You Ah-h ' — it  was  a  kind  of  laugh,  that  deep  giving  out  of 

boundless  relief — 'I  understand  at  last.  You  have  said  to  your- 
self: "He  made  me  wait.  He  shall  have  his  turn."  Very  well. 
I  will  wait;'  and  he  sat  down. 

The  sight  of  him  there,  the  sense  of  his  impenetrable  egoism, 
the  mere  weight  and  bulk  of  his  bodily  presence,  grew  suddenly 
intolerable. 

And  he  would  wait.  There  in  Ventnor,  later  in  London. 
More  patient,  more  persistent,  more  the  lover  now  that  she  was 
out  of  his  reach,  than  he  had  ever  been  before.  And  the  thought 
revolted  her.  A  protracted  struggle  at  this  time  of  day  was 
too  hideous.  Aside  from  the  ugliness  of  it,  it  would  involve  a 
further  complication  of  existence  that  she  had  no  strength  to 
meet. 

'It  seems  you  are  strangely  far  from  understanding  me  even 
yet,  though  I've  tried  to  be  plain.  I  hardly  know  how  to  be 
plainer,' — but  even  as  she  said  the  words,  'a  way'  flashed  its 
sign-post  before  her  startled  eyes,  and  pointed  a  guiding  finger. 
'Perhaps  it  will  be  clear,  if  I  say  that,  at  last,  I  know  a  man  for 
whose  sake  I  could  do  what  I  refused  to  do  for  you.' 

'You  don't  mean '  he  began,  breathless. 

'Yes,  I  do.' 

'It  isn't  possible,  Katharine,  that  you ' 

'Listen!'  She  bent  forward, — paused  to  cast  a  glance  across 
her  shoulder  to  the  open  glass  door,  and  even  though  there  was 
obviously  no  one  in  the  little  room — she  lowered  her  voice.  'I 
would  turn  my  back  on  all  the  rest  of  the  world  to  follow  him. 
Anywhere,  and  without  assurance  of  anything  beyond — beyond 
the  joy  of  "das  reine  Zusammensein." '  He  had  been  rigidly 
still — but  now  she  saw  him  wince.  'Yes,  you  taught  me  that 
phrase.  It's  only  now  that  I  can  guess  at  what  it  means.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  237 

He  turned  away  his  eyes.  A  refinement  of  cruelty  in  her, 
a  kind  of  intellectual  indecency  to  use  in  this  new  connection 
those  old  words  of  his, — sharp  reminder  of  the  days  when  he  had 
urged  on  her,  and  urged  in  vain,  precisely  this  point  of  view. 
But  she  had  done  it  not  meaning  to  inflict  pain — meaning  only 
to  shed  full  daylight.  If  she  had  these  daring  thoughts — if  she 
should  find  arguments  to  make  them  good,  had  he  not  given 
them  to  her?  They  were  in  truth  his  children,  and  with  a  power 
to  wound  that  only  our  own  can  wield. 

'So  now,'  she  said  in  the  pause,  'now  you  understand.'  He 
sat  there  perfectly  still  staring  at  the  roses  on  the  flower-box. 

'Yes,'  he  said  at  last,  speaking  a  little  thickly,  'I  understand 
now.'  But  still  he  did  not  go.  'He  is  married,  I  suppose.' 

'No.' 

'Ah!'  he  burst  out  in  a  kind  of  rage  of  humiliation.  'No 
impediment,  no  excuse,  and  yet  you  sit  here  waiting  for  him  to 
make  a  sign.'  She  offered  no  denial.  'And  if  he  should,  you'd 
go  to  him.' 

She  shrank.     'I  only  say  I  could.' 

'You've  known  him — how  long?' 

'You  have  no  right  to  question  me.' 

'No  right!  I  have  the  best  right  in  all  the  world.  The  right 
of  a  man  who  has  loved  you  for  years,  and  who  wants  to  save  you 
from  a  ghastly  mistake.  It  is,  of  course,  some  quite  new  acquaint- 
ance.' A  sudden  look  in  his  face,  or  else  the  fear  in  her  own 
tortured  heart,  made  her  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  on 
the  point  of  guessing.  But  for  that  she  would  have  declined  to 
answer.  As  it  was,  and  to  put  him  off  the  track,  she  said  hurriedly : 
'I  have  known  him  a  long  time.' 

'What?  And  he  doesn't  give  you  the  smallest  reason  to 

think '  She  shook  her  head.  He  laughed  unpleasantly. 

'Then  I'll  wait  until  you  are  tired  of  watching  for  it.' 

A  feeling  as  of  one  struggling  in  a  nightmare  strangled  her. 
Was  there  no  way  to  shake  him  off?  'Anton,  I — I  won't  wait. 

If  he  makes  no  sign  I'll  go  to  him '  She  stopped  an  instant 

before  the  look  in  his  face.  'Why  not?'  she  said  a  little  wildly. 
'If  it  were  thinkable  that  a  woman  of  character  and  standing 
should  be  morganatic  wife  to  a  Prince,  why  not  to  this  First  of 
Men — if  he  will  have  it  so — if  he  will!'  The  solid  world  about 


238  A  DARK  LANTERN 

her  went  swimming  out  of  sight,  as  she  let  her  head  drop  on 
arms  folded  on  the  railing.  She  did  not  know  how  long  she  sat 
there,  but  when  she  lifted  her  tear-wet  eyes,  Prince  Anton  was 
disappearing  through  the  French  window  without  one  backward 
look. 

But  he  had  pointed  out  the  way! 

She  sat  motionless  there  in  the  rising  wind,  heard  the  house 
door  close,  heard  steps  go  down  the  side  street,  under  the  balcony 
— listened  to  them  growing  fainter,  with  an  overwhelming  sense 
of  the  sadness  of  life,  the  pitiful  evanescence  of  the  things  we  call 
enduring. 

The  thought  of  Vincent  made  her  shrink  a  little  now,  and  yet 
brought  close  upon  that  shrinking  a  reproach  as  of  disloyalty. 
For  it  was  no  real  thing  that  was  disappearing  down  the  narrow 
street.  It  was  a  dream,  a  phantasm.  Not  youth  and  love  that 
were  going  out  of  her  life!  No!  She  had  said  good-bye  to  an 
incarnate  lie.  Why  was  she  so  sad?  Shame  upon  her.  She 
stood  up,  thinking  to  go  to  her  room.  As  she  turned  away,  her 
eyes  were  caught,  as  by  an  appeal  from  the  neglected  roses,  that 
hung  their  heads  down  over  the  end  of  the  old  flower-box.  Crying 
softly,  she  lifted  them  in  her  hands.  They  brushed  against  the 
dry  geraniums — broke  off  a  leaf.  The  brown  and  shrivelled  thing 
whispered  something  as  it  rustled  across  the  rim  of  the  box,  and 
went  flying  down  the  street  like  a  belated  messenger  at  the  Prince's 
heels. 


CHAPTER  III 

SHE  did  not,  after  all,  go  up  to  London  on  the  morrow,  but 
stayed  on  at  Ventnor,  day  after  day,  so  little  certain  in  which 
direction  to  turn  that  she  stood  stock  still. 

If  all  unwitting,  Anton  had  pointed  out  'the  way,'  his  visit  had 
lamed  her  spirit,  and  taken  from  her  the  moment's  courage  to 
set  her  feet  upon  so  strange  a  path.  Ten  days  went  by.  Then, 
very  early  one  morning,  she  rang  for  Natalie.  'I  must  go  back 
to  town.  Immediately.  By  the  i.io.' 

Once  in  London,  the  tonic  spirit  of  the  place,  the  sense  that 
the  grey  and  ancient  town  invariably  brought  back,  of  there  being 
here  a  concentration  of  mighty  forces  at  work,  a  place  of  huge 
happening,  of  mystery,  achievement,  and  boundless  possibility, 
of  destiny  a-making — all  wrought  in  her  afresh  to  a  renewal  of 
the  spirit.  And  he  was  here.  Garth  Vincent  daily  went  his  way 
through  these  enchanted  streets.  It  was  here  that  they  would 
meet.  Here  that  she  would  come  to  know.  .  .  . 

The  mood  of  daring  born  in  that  hour  of  revolt  against  Prince 
Anton,  came  back  insistent,  almost  joyous.  Why  not?  Days 
before  Anton  had  found  her  there  at  Ventnor,  she  had  known 
that  shame  would  tarnish  any  attempt  that  she  might  make  to 
take  Garth  Vincent  in  or  to  take  him  unaware — to  win  him  to 
her  by  any  devious  way  of  subtlety  or  wile.  To-night  in  London, 
she  could  say  to  herself  with  a  sense  of  exhilaration,  that  there 
would  be,  for  her  at  least,  a  certain  honour  in  openness  of  dealing 
— even  though  it  brought  her  pain,  even  though  it  brought  the 
blow  of  blank  denial.  It  must  be  possible  to  lift  the  supreme 
question  of  life  into  that  high  region  where  feminine  pretences 
and  small  reserves  are  left  as  far  below,  as  light  clouds  under 
Alpine  climbers. 

330 


24o  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Why  not  ?  She  leaned  out  of  the  hansom  as  she  drove  through 
the  crowded  streets,  saying  the  two  little  words  of  Fate  over  and 
over  to  herself  between  intervals  of  justification. 

Why  not?  Why  should  it  be  impossible  to  take  her  love  to 
him,  and  offer  it  quite  openly,  saying:  'Without  your  seeking 
or  my  will,  this  has  come.  It  is  no  such  common  thing.  Women 
and  men,  too,  wait  all  their  lives  for  such  a  gift.  I  dare  not  be 
ashamed.'  One  would  even  give  it  proudly,  with  a  sense  of 
bounty — if  the  giving  were  less  sweet. 

The  magic  of  the  London  mood  lasted  till  she  turned  into 
Westminster  Bridge  Road. 

A  gaunt,  ungainly  figure  in  a  nurse's  close  bonnet,  and  long 
straight  cloak,  crossed  hurriedly  under  the  horse's  head.  The 
starched  white  bow  under  the  woman's  chin  recalled  Nurse 
Phillips — recalled  the  days  that  she  had  been  a  part  of,  and  the 
pains  that  Katharine  had  taken  to  hide  her  true  state  from  the 
nurse;  above  all,  to  hide  it  from  Him,  the  Healer.  But  that  was 
long  ago,  before  she  realized  what  had  befallen  her.  Before  she 
belonged  to  him.  And  she  said  the  last  phrase  over  solemnly, 
as  one  reciting  a  part  of  the  office  of  a  sacrament.  She  had  no 
longer  any  sense  of  the  voluntary  choosing  of  a  course.  Whether 
she  liked  it  or  not,  whether  she  struggled  or  acquiesced,  he  was 
a  part  of  her  already.  Whether  for  health,  purifying,  strength- 
ening; or  like  a  fever,  devouring  the  blood — only  that  remained 
to  know.  And  for  that  knowledge  was  sLe  come  to  town. 

Nearly  four-and-twenty  hours  went  by,  and  still  the  first  step 
towards  acquirement  not  alone  was  not  taken;  it  was  not  even 
clear  in  what  fashion  it  should  be  essayed.  Thursday!  and 
to-morrow  he  would  be  going  to  the  country.  The  thought 
brought  a  feverish  sense  of  need  for  sharp  despatch,  and  yet  the 
note  of  summons  that  she  vaguely  meant  to  write  was  still  unsent, 
unformulated.  Each  time  she  sat  down  with  a  sheet  of  paper 
before  her,  it  had  instantly  seemed  an  easier  thing  to  go  to  him. 
'Difficult  missions  were  best  conducted  by  word  of  mouth,'  she 
said  to  herself,  satirically;  and  then,  gravely:  'a  look  will  often 
save  a  sentence,  save  a  situation;  the  withholding  of  a  word 
speak  volumes.'  She  would  push  the  paper  from  her,  and  rise 
up  full  of  the  new  purpose. 

Go  to  him!    Be  admitted  by  a  man  with  a  patient's  appoint- 


A  DARK  LANTERN  241 

ment  book? — have  such  an  interview,  any  interview  with  Garth 
Vincent  now,  in  a  consulting  room?  Hideous,  grotesque,  intol- 
erable. And  she  would  sit  down  again,  begin  a  note,  tear  it  up, 
and  go  for  a  walk — twice  to  the  Park,  and  many  times  back  and 
forth,  back  and  forth  through  her  suite  of  rooms. 

And  now  it  was  Friday.  Whatever  came,  she  must  have 
speech  of  him  to-day — or  else  be  left  over  Saturday,  and  Sunday, 
in  a  London  where  he  was  not.  She  would  send  him  on  this 
Friday  morning,  a  note  by  special  messenger.  She  wrote  half 
a  dozen  in  turn.  Everything  was  impossible  the  moment  it 
reached  paper.  Impossible  to  ask  him  simply  to  come,  and 
to  come  quickly — that  would  mean,  'I  am  ill,  come  with  your 
professional  air,  take  not  my  hand,  my  pulse.'  Ugh!  Impos- 
sible to  ask  him  to  dine,  impossible  to  send  this  summons  forth 
under  any  poor  little  mask  of  mere  civility — impossible,  im- 
possible each  and  every  way. 

And  now  it  was  five  o'clock,  and  he  was  gone.  London  was 
stripped  and  bare. 

On  Saturday,  her  restlessness  took  her  forth  directly  after 
luncheon.  'I'll  go  to  the  Park/  she  had  said  to  Natalie,  meaning 
what  she  said.  But  instead  of  going  to  the  left  when  she  got 
outside  Claridge's,  she  turned  to  the  right  and  presently  found 
herself  walking  up  New  Bond  Street.  Where  it  meets  Oxford 
Street,  she  stood  several  seconds  on  the  curb-stone,  arrested 
by  the  thought:  'Suppose  someone  is  very  ill,  and  he  has  stayed 
in  town!'  Upon  the  mere  supposition,  London  was  full  of 
eager  life  again,  and  of  limitless  possibility.  Again  the  feeling: 
this  is  the  heart  of  the  world!  Down  yonder,  only  five  or  six 
minutes  away,  that  house  where  he  'lived  alone.'  She  crossed 
the  road  that  Lord  Peterborough  said  had  seen  the  Roman 
eagles,  and  turned  down  the  second  street  on  the  left.  It  was 
very  short,  and  her  goal  was  at  the  bottom.  But  she  paused 
again.  'Am  I  going  to  his  house?  But  I've  seen  for  long 
that  I  couldn't  do  that.  What  should  I  say  if  I  found  him  there  ? 
Nothing.  Nothing.'  She  turned  sharply  and  sheered  off  to 
the  left,  into  Henrietta  Street.  'And  I  will  never  meet  him  by  a 
chance,  since  he  almost  never  "goes  out,"  and  then  not  to  places 
I  frequent.' 

A  sombre  anger  invaded  her  heart.  'In  spite  of  my  boast  to 

16 


242  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Anton,  shall  I  go  on  like  this,  letting  I  dare  not  wait  upon  I 
would,  till  I  am  old,  and  the  Saga  for  me  is  ended?  Are  there 
other  women  in  the  world  who  walk  these  streets  with  just  such 
histories  in  their  hearts,  carrying  them  about  under  commonplace 
exteriors,  till  they  lay  them  to  rest  in  their  graves?'  As  she 
thought,  she  walked  on.  Suddenly  she  stopped  again.  But, 
of  course!  The  thing  to  do  was  to  go  to  Worcester  House.  It 
had  begun  to  rain,  but  she  called  a  hansom,  and  looking  back 
as  she  got  in — back  towards  the  square  she  could  not  see,  his 
square  at  the  end  of  the  street — she  gave  the  cabman  the  new 
direction. 

Her  Grace  was  gone  to  the  country.  The  Duke?  He  was 
at  a  Nursing  Home,  and  saw  no  one.  She  turned  away.  How 
raw  and  grey  the  London  street!  The  wind  struck  keen,  but  the 
rain  had  stopped.  '  Drive,'  she  said  to  the  cabman, '  drive  towards 
Cavendish  Square.' 

Now  they  were  passing  the  house.  No  trim  brougham  waiting 
for  him  to  come  out,  opportunely.  No,  he  was  away.  What 
was  it  like,  his  'in  the  country'?  Imagination  gave  no  clue. 
When  she  had  driven  by  this  town-house  of  his — equal  mystery, 
although  she  had  been  in  it — she  remembered  she  had  not  looked 
up  at  its  windows.  Indeed,  now  she  thought  of  it,  she  had  been 
too  flustered  to  see  it  at  all.  She  was  shy  of  making  the  cabman 
drive  round  again,  and,  besides,  the  rain  was  over. 

At  Mortimer  Street  she  dismissed  the  cab,  and  continued  on 
foot  round  the  Square.  The  moment  she  turned,  at  the  north- 
west corner,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  house.  'Are  you  there? 
Are  you  there?'  Her  glance  ran  from  window  to  window.  No 
face.  Now  she  was  passing  the  door  again.  It  struck  her  it 
was  rather  like  Garth  Vincent:  close-shut,  unyielding-looking, 
impenetrable,  with  iron  about  it,  all  grim  and  black  save  only 
the  shining  name.  She  went  by,  repeating  the  shining  name. 
Since  he's  in  the  country,  I'll  go  round  once  more,  and  then  never 
again. 

Who  was  the  bronze  man  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  Square, 
between  the  leafless  plane-tree  and  the  holly  hedge  ?  She  crossed 
to  read  the  name  upon  the  granite.  'I  suppose  you  know  him 
very  well,  William  George  Frederick  Cavendish  Bentinck.  You 
see  him  flying  in  and  out  every  day  of  your  life.  It's  nothing  to 


A  DARK  LANTERN  243 

you,  William  George  Frederick  Cavendish  Bentinck '  and 

she  walked  on,  prolonging  this  last  round  childishly,  pausing 
with  pretence  of  interest  to  look  up,  as  she  passed,  at  the  great 
mysterious  house  on  the  west.  Two  Houses  of  Mystery  in  one 
Square!  This  one  surrounded  by  walls  and  guarded  by  spiked 
gates.  She  stared  up  at  the  single  Cyclopean  window  in  the  very 
front  of  the  high  pediment,  and  felt  it  must  have  been  upon  such 
an  afternoon  as  this,  that  the  late  Duke  determined  to  dispense 
with  the  pretence  of  daylight.  Was  it  true  that  he  had  burrowed 
underneath  his  palace,  and  honeycombed  the  earth  with  sub- 
terranean rooms  and  galleries,  where  he  lived  out  his  strange 
existence,  mole-like,  never  seeing  the  light  of  day,  and  yet  like 
some  genie  in  an  Eastern  tale,  living  in  a  blaze  of  splendour: 
lights,  lights,  everywhere,  day  and  night,  in  the  gorgeous  under- 
ground rooms,  shining  upon  wonderful  pictures,  marbles,  gold, 
and  jewels — treasures  without  number  and  without  name?  And 
he  never  showed  anyone  his  kingdom  underground,  and  the  world 
in  revenge  had  called  him  mad.  How  it  hates  and  fears  mystery, 
the  rough-and-ready  old  world!  If  you  have  anything  you  are 
not  ready  to  advertise,  you  must  be  either  criminal  or  mad. 
What's  the  use  of  microscope  and  telescope,  electric  light,  and 
the  halfpenny  press  if  a  man  presume  to  have  a  secret?  Why, 
the  very  stars  must  have  their  pictures  taken,  and  be  interviewed. 
'Of  course,'  Katharine  smiled  up  at  the  oculus,  dim,  but  vigilant, 
like  an  eye  dull  and  old  that  yet  sees  more  than  many  young 
and  shining — 'of  course  the  Duke  was  mad.'  A  door  banged  in 
the  direction  of  Vincent's  house.  She  looked  quickly  back  over 
her  shoulder.  An  old  man  had  just  come  out,  opened  his  um- 
brella, and  walked  quickly  away.  Why,  yes,  it  was  raining 
again.  Just  a  little,  slow  and  sullenly.  Was  there  on  earth  a 
drearier  place  than  London  in  December?  What  use  to  go 
round  the  dismal  square  again?  None.  One  wanted  a  fire, 
a  light,  and  a  hole  to  creep  into — just  like  the  mad  Duke!  She 
stopped  on  the  corner,  looking  up  Wigmore  Street.  Cabs  in 
the  distance.  She  would  wait  till  one  came  within  hail.  Sud- 
denly she  was  very  tired. 

But  she  stood  at  the  corner  some  minutes,  feeling  the  chill 
and  the  wet  penetrate  the  innermost  heart  of  life.  Well,  here 
she  was  in  London  again!  But  the  London  that  she  had  been 


344  A  DARK  LANTERN 

so  happy  in,  was  as  dead  as  Pompeii.  Peterborough  House  was 
shut  and  empty.  Bertie  was  gone  to  the  Riviera,  so  said  the 
Morning  Post.  Anton  was  dismissed  for  ever.  Even  her  father, 
lost  to  her.  And  kind  old  Lord  Peterborough  was  hardly  colder 
in  his  grave  than  Katharine  standing  there  waiting  for  a  hansom 
in  the  rain. 

And  this  was  what  coming  back  to  London  meant.  Who 
was  the  happier  for  her  coming?  Who  cared?  It  did  not 
help  her  at  the  moment  to  remember  that  nobody  knew  of  her 
presence — that  there  were  those  who  would  fly  at  her  call.  The 
fact  that  she  was  alone,  and  convicted  in  her  heart  of  a  vain 
search  for  someone — these  facts  struck  cold  like  the  wet  London 
wind.  It  was  the  feeling  all  women  know  who  allow  themselves, 
even  temporarily,  to  break  with  the  kindly  ties  of  family  and 
close  friendship.  She  saw  the  littleness,  the  grim  insignificance 
of  the  individual — things  that  our  friends  unconsciously  help  us 
to  disguise  from  ourselves.  Happily,  or  even  busily  surrounded, 
we  forget  that  it  is  only  by  virtue  of  others  that  we  properly  exist 
at  all.  As  well  try  to  live  without  people,  as  play  ball  without 
wall  or  raquet  for  it  to  rebound  from — or  hands  to  keep  it  going. 
When  we  fly  to  books,  it  is  again  to  people  that  we  go — again  we 
reach  out  for  companionship,  for  those  assurances  without  which 
we  perish,  assurances  no  man  finds  within  himself,  not  the  most 
philosophic  nor  the  best. 

Katharine  hung  those  bitter  moments  suspended  in  the  void. 
A  hansom  came  crawling  along.  The  driver's  sou-wester  and 
mackintosh  cape  gleamed  in  the  grey  wet.  The  woman  stand- 
ing on  the  curb-stone  raised  her  hand.  The  cabman  motioned 
'All  right,'  but  waited.  A  motor-car  was  rushing  down  the 
street.  The  man  who  drove  it  turned  his  head,  the  least  bit  in 
the  world,  and  looked  sharply  at  the  figure  standing  at  the  corner. 

'Is  that  you?'  He  swerved  in  towards  the  pavement,  till 
his  swollen  wheel  grazed  the  curb.  With  a  buzzing  and  a  vibrat- 
ing the  monster  paused,  panting  and  as  if  pleased  to  rest. 

'Do  you  know  anything  about  motors?'    Vincent  demanded. 

'Yes;  I  learned  something  about  them  abroad.  I've  driven 
a  Panhard.'  She  looked  critically  at  the  English-made  machine, 
congratulating  herself — How  well  I  have  myself  in  hand !  '  What's 
this?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  245 

'A  new  Napier.' 

'What  power?' 

'Twenty-four.  What  are  you  doing  out  in  the  wet?'  The 
rough  question  pleased  her  like  a  caress. 

'I've  just  come  up  to  town,'  she  answered  irrelevantly —  'that 
is,  I  came  last  night.  Don't  you  want  to  take  me  back  to  my 

hotel?'  As  he  hesitated:  ' or  are  you  rushing  to  some 

patient  ? ' 

'I'm  giving  myself  twenty  minutes  to  try  this  machine.' 

'I  think  I  might  ask  you  "what  are  you  doing  out  in  the  wet?" 
It's  a  fine  afternoon  to  try  a  motor.' 

'I  haven't  got  time  to  wait  on  the  weather.  Besides,  the 
shower's  over.  Where's  your  hotel?'  She  told  him. 

'Well,  get  in.' 

She  took  her  seat  at  his  side,  with  never  a  thought  for  the 
disappointed  cabby  scowling  from  over  the  way.  She  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  fine  brown  hand  that  rested  on  the  driving  wheel, 
and  gave  herself  up  to  a  blind,  unreasoning  joy  as  the  car  scudded 
round  the  corner. 

'You  aren't  dressed  for  motoring,'  he  said.  'Pull  the  rug 
over.' 

'I'm  not  cold.'  And  it  was  true.  The  chill  was  gone  out 
of  the  air.  She  did  not  even  feel  the  occasional  rain  drop.  She 
had  a  sense  of  being,  on  a  sudden,  wrapped  in  warmth.  They 
flew  on  in  silence.  Glancing  sideways,  she  saw  the  vigilant  eyes 
narrowed.  On  the  driving  wheel  lightly,  firmly,  lay  the  clever 
hands;  the  right  falling  every  now  and  then  on  shining  brake, 
or  speed-lever,  and  resting  there  awhile. 

'They  aren't  a  bit  like  the  rest  of  you,'  she  said  involuntarily 
— 'your  hands  aren't.' 

'Why?'  He  shot  as  sharp  a  look  down  on  them,  as  if  he'd 
never  in  his  life  seen  them,  before.  'What's  the  matter  with 
them?'  he  demanded.  Then,  before  she  could  answer:  'I  know! 
They're  damned  cold!'  With  his  left  hand  he  felt  in  his  pocket. 
That  gloves  were  not  forthcoming  seemed  not  to  surprise  him, 
nor  even  to  matter.  Absorbed  in  his  new  toy,  one  hand  or  other 
always  on  the  wheel,  eyes  measuring  distance,  brain  calculating 
time. 

She  had  laughed.     'That  wasn't  what  I  meant.'    Still  she 


246  A  DARK  LANTERN 

watched  his  hands.  With  deliberate  intent  to  infuriate:  'They 
are  like  a  woman's  or  an  Italian's.' 

'  Oh !  you  find  me  effeminate,  do  you  ? '  he  grinned. 

'Hardly   that,'    she    admitted. 

'You'd  call  me  a  woman's  man,  or  a  man's  man?'  he  asked 
sardonically. 

Stupidly  she  answered  au  pied  de  la  lettre:  'Oh,  a  man's,  of 
course,'  thinking  straightway  after,  'What's  called  "a  woman's 
man"  is  not  a  man  for  anyone.' 

Now  they  were  racing  from  Vere  Street  across  Oxford  Street. 
'Which  way  are  you  going — not  down  Bond  Street!' 

'Why  not?' 

'Why,  the  traffic  and  the  greasy  wood  pavement ' 

But  threading  his  way  in  and  out  among  cabs,  omnibuses, 
carriages,  he  turned  sharply  into  crowded  Bond  Street,  those 
same  slim  hands  on  brake  or  wheel  or  lever,  guiding  the  car  as 
surely,  safely  here,  as  they  guided  men  and  women  through 
dangers  more  menacing  than  the  quick  disaster  of  a  street  colli- 
sion. 

There  was  Aubrey  Church  coming  away  from  some  picture 
show,  no  doubt,  walking,  as  always,  with  down-bent  head,  his 
near-sighted  eyes  seeming  to  have  given  up  the  hope  of  seeing 
the  world  as  it  passed,  and  to  look  for  compensation  in  the  pav- 
ing-stones. But  now  the  press  was  closer,  just  above  the  point 
where  Brook  Street  comes  into  Bond  Street — and  still  they 
hardly  slackened  speed. 

'That  was  neatly  done,'  said  Katharine  lightly,  as  by  a  hair 
they  missed  grazing  a  carriage  suddenly  drawn  up. 

'Ass!'  ejaculated  the  driver  of  the  motor.  'Even  if  the  Prime 
Minister  doesn't  know  his  business,  he  ought  to  get  a  coachman 
who  does!' 

'Oh,  was  that  Marlowe?' 

'Yes.     You  aren't  going  to  stay  in  town!' 

'Why  shouldn't  I?' 

'Because  you  aren't  strong  enough  yet.' 

'No,'  she  answered  vaguely. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ? ' 

'I  don't  know.'  Then  suddenly:  'I  thought  you  were  going 
to  cure  me.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  247 

'I  did  the  best  I  could.' 

'No,'  she  said,  with  a  sudden  passion  vibrating  in  the  low 
voice. 

'What?'  The  press  was  closer  here,  and  still  they  hardly 
slackened  pace. 

As  straight  ahead  as  he,  she  looked,  driving  the  car  of  her 
life.  'You  only  took  me  a  certain  way  on  the  road'  .  .  .  she 
hesitated,  caught  her  breath,  glanced  sideways,  met  his  simul- 
taneous swift  scrutiny,  and  then,  with  the  feeling  one  must  have 
who  jumps  from  the  roof  of  a  burning  house,  she  said  very  low: 
'Why  don't  you  finish  what  you  began?'  Instead  of  making 
for  the  little  court  in  front  of  Claridge's  he  turned  the  car  sharply 
out  of  Brook  Street  into  South  Molton  Street.  Without  looking 
at  her,  he  said: 

'What  do  you  mean  by  that?' 

'All  that  you  can  imagine  I  might.' 

'Imagining  isn't  my  business.' 

Oh!  would  he  spare  her  nothing?  She  clenched  her  hands 
together  in  her  muff,  and,  'Take  me  away,'  she  said. 

'Where?' 

'Wherever  you  will.' 

'When?' 

'Now.' 

'I  can't.' 

'Why?' 

'I've  got  a  consultation.' 

Good  God !  did  he  never  forget  his  trade  ? 

'I'm  not  going  to  the  country  till  the  last  train,'  he  said. 

'To-night?' 

'Yes.' 

'Well.' 

He  looked  at  her  now.  Her  muscles  stiffened  as  under  an 
assault,  but  she  sat  quite  silent,  submitting  herself  with  outward 
calm  to  the  dire  humiliation  of  refusal. 

'Do  you  mean  it?'  he  asked  sharply. 

'Yes,  I  mean  it,'  and  her  heart  leapt  up  with  a  sudden  wild 
hope.  As  he  said  nothing:  'Don't  you  believe  me?' 

'It  isn't  easy.'  Another  pause,  and  then,  with  rough  bitter- 
ness: 'You  hit  me  pretty  hard  once.' 


248  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'You  need  not  be  afraid  now,'  she  said  almost  in  a  whisper. 
Straight  on,  without  reply,  he  drove  round  to  Brook  Street  again; 
in  her  heart  the  prayer:  'Oh,  don't  remember  that  I  "hit  you 
pretty  hard  once!"3  But  he  is  remembering.  He  will  refuse. 
Quick!  Let  me  think.  We  are  almost  there.  I  must  get  up 
to  my  room  somehow  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  .  well,  it  won't  matter, 
of  course,  if  I  never  come  down  again.  Only  I  must  get  there, 
decently.'  She  began  to  long  for  that  featureless  hotel  room  as 
she  had  never  longed  for  any  haven  but  this  man's  breast.  When 
I  say  good-bye,  shall  I  be  able  to  look  at  him  without.  .  .  . 
Dear  God  .  .  .  how  were  these  seconds  just  before  her — how 
were  they  to  be  lived  through  ?  Should  she  find  strength  to  stand 
up  under  his  eyes?  If  not — if  she  fell  ...  no  ...  he  would 
have  to  stay  in  that  event,  stay  and  look  after  her,  and  he  would 
think  .  .  .  No!  Whatever  happened,  she  must  bear  this  anguish 
steadfastly,  till  he  was  out  of  sight.  Only  a  moment  more.  .  .  . 
If  only  the  man  hadn't  such  terrible  eyes! 

The  car  shot  neatly  into  Claridge's  narrow  court.  The  liveried 
servant  at  the  door  set  down  the  wicker  wheel-guard,  and  was 
coming  forward. 

'Good-bye,'  said  Katharine,  rising  before  the  motor  had 
actually  stopped. 

'I'll  meet  you  at  the  station,'  said  Vincent. 

'To  go  .  .  .where?'  she  said  very  low. 

He  looked  suspiciously  at  her,  as  if  she  had  asked  him  some 
too  intimate  question.  Then  he  opened  his  coat,  felt  in  a  pocket, 
took  out  a  letter  addressed  to  himself — drew  off  the  envelope, 
and  handed  it  to  her,  saying:  'Victoria  at  ten.' 

'Victoria  at  ten,'  she  heard  someone  replying.  Was  that 
her  voice  ? 


CHAPTER  IV 

LESS  like  one  leaving  a  lover  than  like  one  escaping  from  an 
enemy,  swiftly  across  the  shallow  step,  through  the  two  glass 
doors,  past  a  servant  and  a  couple  of  out-going  guests,  into  the 
hall  of  Claridge's.  Two  or  three  groups  of  people,  in  the  bril- 
liantly-lit space,  were  quietly  talking.  Upon  Katharine's  quick 
entrance,  a  man  sitting  on  the  sofa  opposite  the  door,  in  the 
shadow  of  a  gigantic  palm,  jumped  up  and  came  towards  her. 
She  swerved  a  little  on  a  blind  impulse  to  evade. 

'Patience  is  sometimes  rewarded,'  said  a  familiar  voice.  Her 
sense  of  nervous  irritation  at  the  intrusion  of  the  irrelevant,  was 
not  allayed  by  seeing  it  was  Bertie  standing  in  her  way,  saying 
good-humouredly:  'I've  been  waiting  a  solid  hour.' 

'Have  you?'  Although  he  stood  there  in  the  full  light  now, 
she  was  barely  conscious  of  him;  or,  rather,  conscious  of  him 
merely  as  impediment,  featureless,  impersonal.  She  herself,  like 
a  passenger  off  a  ship,  who  has  made  a  voyage  long  and  stormy, 
and  on  the  solid  earth  yet  feels  the  motion  of  the  boat,  Katharine 
was  still  speeding  breathless  against  the  wind  across  uncharted 
seas,  on  a  journey  of  high  peril,  for  which  she  needed  eyes  and 
ears  and  unencumbered  heart.  The  man  she  had  left  at  the 
door  with  those  words  so  utterly  commonplace,  '  Victoria  at  ten ' 
(for  her  charged  with  the  significance  of  betrothal),  the  man  she 
had  left  out  there,  with  his  curious  faculty  for  taking  the  colour 
out  of  all  other  men,  was  so  sharply  vivid  before  the  eye  of  the 
mind  that  this  old  friend  confronting  her  actual  eye — man  of 
mere  flesh  and  bone — was  vague  as  half-forgotten  dreams. 
Blindly  she  moved  to  the  stair,  on  the  impulse  to  shake  off  this 
faded  memory  that  spoke  with  Bertie  Amherst's  voice,  this 
pleasant  ghost  that  had  risen  between  her  and  that  fierce  reality 

249 


250  A  DARK  LANTERN 

out  yonder,  as  insistent  as  women  find  sacrifice,  as  glorious  as 
men  find  war. 

What  was  the  pleasant  ghost  saying  in  the  soft,  unemphatic 
voice?  Why  did  he  keep  beside  her?  She  must  hasten  away 
and  make  ready — 

'Victoria  at  ten!' 

Oh,  Black-Magic  Man!    You  must  love  me — love  me! 

'What's  the  matter,  Kitty?  You  .  .  .  Look  here!  you  aren't 
going  to  faint,  are  you?'  Bertie  had  taken  hold  of  her  arm  and 
was  drawing  her  to  the  sofa.  Katharine  sat  down  and  covered 
her  eyes  with  her  hand.  Now  he  was  even  vivider.  That  was 
how  he  would  look  at  '  Victoria  at  ten.' 

What  was  this  the  ghost  beside  her  was  saying?  'You  aren't 
strong  enough  yet  to  be  running  about — all  alone,  too.'  And 
then  very  mercifully  he  sat  silent  for  a  little.  Bertie  had  always 
an  instinct  for  doing  the  proper,  or  at  all  events  the  soothing, 
the  desired  thing. 

Presently:  'Are  you  all  right  for  a  moment?'  She  nodded, 
without  taking  her  hand  from  her  eyes. 

Bertie  jumped  up  and  intercepted  a  servant,  hurrying  by  with 
a  card.  Spoke  to  him  as  if  confidentially,  and  emphasized  his 
words  with  a  clink  of  gold  upon  the  tray  where  a  card  lay.  Then 
loud  enough  for  Katharine  to  hear:  'Yes,  please.  Before  you 
take  that  up!  Will  you?' 

'Yes,  sir!'  The  servant  had  turned  about  and  run  off  in  a 
different  direction.  Bertie  was  always  civil  to  servants.  She 
thought  how  Vincent  would  have  spoken.  He  had  no  'Will 
you?'  let  alone  'Please,'  even  for  his  equals.  But  disapproval 
knocked  in  vain  at  her  full  heart. 

She  let  her  hand  drop  from  her  eyes  into  her  lap,  and  sat  staring 
in  front  of  her  at  vacancy.  Vacancy?  No!  At  pictures 
painted  on  the  hours  that  would  come  after  'ten  o'clock  at  Vic- 
toria.' 

Bertie  had  slipped  quietly  into  the  place  at  her  side.  'Why 
don't  you  take  off  those  heavy  furs?'  He  helped  her.  'Beast 
of  a  day.  You  aren't  going  to  stop  here  long  such  weather?1 

'N-no.' 

'  When  are  you  off  again  ? ' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  251 

'T-to-night — or  very  soon.' 

Oh,  Black-Magic  Man,  how  is  it  with  you  when  you  care? 
As,  silently,  she  opened  the  door  to  the  question,  fear  crept  in. 

'As  quick  as  all  that!'  Bertie  said  in  a  low,  disappointed 
voice.  'Where  are  you  going?' 

She  turned  for  the  first  time  and  looked  at  him.  'I  thought 
you  were  on  the  Riviera.' 

'What  made  you  think  that?' 

'Oh,  some  paper  said  so.' 

'Rum  state  of  things  when  your  knowledge  of  my  movements 
is  gleaned  from  the  press!  Don't  you  think  so?' 

She  smiled  faintly:  'I've  been  away,  you  see.  So  long  out 
of  things — I — I  feel  a  good  deal  of  a  stranger.' 

Why  had  Vincent  not  made  her  the  least  sign — since  he  was 
ready?  Why  had  he  allowed  her  (compelled  her!)  to  say — 
what  she  had  said?  There  had  been  cruelty  in  that.  Cruelty 
of  the  actual  moment,  and  the  lasting  cruelty  of  the  memory 
that  stabbed  her  now,  and  would  again,  again. 

'Well,  you  won't  feel  a  stranger  long,'  Bertie  had  said. 

'I  don't  know.     I've  had  a  queer  notion  that  it  might  last.' 

'Take  my  word  for  it — it  won't.  By  Jove,  Kitty!' — he  leaned 
towards  her,  not  lover-like,  not  oppressive,  just  pleasantly  smil- 
ing— 'it's  good  to  have  you  back.' 

Again  she  turned  her  head.  The  vagueness  that  enveloped 
him  dispersed  a  little.  It  was  as  if  in  the  act  of  reading  the  bold 
black-letter  of  a  parchment  writing,  absorbed  by  the  wonder 
of  the  story,  dazzled  by  jewelled  picture  and  illuminated  capital, 
the  eye  had  suddenly  been  arrested  by  some  older  writing  under- 
neath, not  quite  obliterate.  The  older  matter  was  nothing  of 
importance,  yet  here  and  there  a  fragment  of  it  caught  the 
eye,  held  it  an  instant  from  the  graver  matter  that  overlaid 
the  page. 

'What  did  you  say?'  she  asked. 

'Only  that  it's  good  to  have  you  back.' 

'How  did  you  find  me?'  she  said  with  an  obscure  gratitude 
to  him  for  trying,  unrecognized  effect  of  her  forlornness  of  an 
hour  ago  when  she  had  stood  alone  in  the  rain,  waiting. 

'I  ran  across  Craybourne  at  the  club.  He  asked  where  you 
were.  /  didn't  know.' 


2S«  A  DARK  LANTERN 

The  brisk  servant  put  a  small  table  in  front  of  Katharine,  and 
set  down  the  cognac  tray. 

'Thank  you,'  said  Bertie.     'That's  all  right.' 

'Much  obliged,  sir.' 

'You've  treated  me  brutally,'  but  he  said  it  quite  cheerfully 
as  he  poured  out  the  liquid  amber. 

'Oh  no.  /  haven't  been  brutal.'  She  set  her  lips  to  the  tiny 
glass  and  took  the  scorch  of  the  liquor  on  her  tongue. 

'Yes,  you  have.  No.  Please  drink  it  all,'  he  prayed  her. 
She  smiled  to  herself:  Vincent  would  have  said  .  .  .  Suddenly 
she  saw  him  side  by  side  with  this  man  on  the  sofa — not  nearly 
so  dim  now,  the  man  on  the  sofa.  The  war  and  the  wound,  and 
absence,  seemed  to  have  left  him  the  same  attractive  creature. 
Well  groomed  and  spick-and-span,  and  yet  with  an  air  of  neg- 
ligence, that  made  you  feel  his  immaculate  freshness  achieved 
without  pains,  unsought,  inevitable,  a  grace  of  nature,  like  his 
fine  tanned  skin  and  his  clear  boyish  eyes — eyes  with  nothing 
behind  them?  Well,  there  might  even  be  a  certain  comfort  in 
that.  Nothing  to  crack  one's  wits  with  wondering.  Oh,  Black- 
Magic  Man,  what  secrets  fierce  or  tender  behind  your  eyes? 

'Danby  came  into  the  club,'  Bertie  was  saying,  'while  Phil 
and  I  were  talking.  He  said  he'd  seen  you  in  a  hansom — at 
least,  he  thought  it  was  you — coming  out  of  Claridge's.  But 
you  looked  clean  through  him  as  if  he'd  been  air,  and  he  hardly 
thought  you'd  cut  an  old  friend  like  that. 

'Oh  no.    I  didn't  notice ' 

'You  were  thinking  of  something  else.' 

'Yes,  I  must  have  been.' 

'Or  someone.'    He  studied  her. 

'Bertie '  she  began  nervously. 

'Yes.' 

'Nothing.    I  must  go  upstairs  now.' 

'What  are  you  going  to  do  to-night?' 

'To-night?    Why?    What  are  you  going  to  do?' 

'Take  you  to  see  the  new  French  dancer  at  the  Alhambra.' 

'Bertie,  you  can't  so  soon  after ' 

'Oh,  lots  of  people  do.  And  I've  got  a  box.  No  one  would 
see  you.  I've  asked  the  Hudsons,  and  we'll  sup  at  the  Savoy — 
private  room.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  253 

'I  can't,'  she  said  quickly;  'didn't  I  tell  you  I  wasn't  going 
to  stay  in  London?' 

'But  you  can't  get  back  to  Ventnor  to-night — look  at  the  time!' 
Katharine  did  so  with  a  stringing  up  of  nerves.  'Stupid  of  me 
to  think  of  dragging  you  out  to  supper — but  there's  no  reason 
we  shouldn't  dine  quietly  together,  and  I'll  leave  you  to  go  to 
bed  early.' 

She  shook  her  head.  Dining  with  Bertie  took  time.  Kath- 
arine's dinner  would  be  short  to-night — more  like  what  she  felt 
must  commonly  be  Vincent's  own.  A  vision  of  him  at  the  head 
of  the  dinner-table — that  gruesome  table  in  the  Cavendish  Square 
dining-room,  that  sick  folk  gathered  round  each  day.  She  saw 
herself  sitting  there  opposite  Garth  Vincent.  And  for  her  life 
she  couldn't  see  white  damask,  nor  glass,  nor  silver,  only  a  dingy 
brown  cloth,  thumbed  papers,  and  tattered  books.  Instead 
of  the  roses  that  she  loved,  those  wiry  bits  of  ivy,  and  a  few  aged 
anemones  drooping  dejected.  Inwardly  she  smiled  at  herself, 
and  shook  the  vision  off.  Where  she  was  there  would  be  roses. 
But  while  Bertie's  pleasant  voice  went  on — he  had  made  her 
sit  down  again  in  the  shadowed  corner  by  the  palm — she  felt 
herself  pursued  by  realization  of  things  at  Cavendish  Square, 
or  otherwhere  with  Garth  Vincent,  that  she  would  find  harder 
to  change  than  the  flowers  at  his  sombre  board. 

Bertie  had  asked  her  something.  What  was  it?  To  cover 
her  inattention:  'If  you  aren't  going  to  the  Riviera,  as  the  papers 
say,  what  shall  you  do?' 

'I  am  going,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  to  take  the  yacht  to  Palermo; 
at  least' — he  looked  at  her — 'I  was  going  to  in  a  fortnight  or  so.' 

How  well  she  knew  what  the  long  golden  days  on  the  blue 
water  would  be  like!  And  while  Bertie  and  his  friends,  who 
were  her  friends  too,  were  doing  all  these  familiar,  pleasant  things, 
what  would  she  be  doing?  'And  till  then,  London?'  she  asked. 

'Well,  I  did  promise  Crutchley  I'd  hunt  ten  days  or  so  in  Leices- 
tershire first.' 

She  could  see  Bertie  as  vividly  in  Leicestershire  as  she  saw 
him  on  the  yacht,  and  she  recovered  a  vague  wonder  as  to  what 
a  London  specialist  could  find  to  do  in  the  country, 

Well,  she  was  going  to  discover. 

'Victoria  at  ten!' 


254  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'So  that's  it,'  she  said  aloud,  'Hunting  in  Leicestershire  till 

you  go  to  Sicily I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  envy  the 

Southern  part  of  your  programme —  -'  and  thought  flew  on  to 
the  hours  that  she  meanwhile  would  be  living  through,  in  mid- 
winter England.  Not  one  of  them  all  could  she  forecast.  As 
she  groped  in  the  impenetrable  dark,  she  turned  her  eyes  to 
the  face  beside  her,  with  a  sudden  sense  of  comfort  in  its  open- 
ness— even  in  its  lack  of  hidden  possibilities.  No  rude  sur- 
prises out  of  Bertie.  With  such  frank  aids  as  he  gave  you  to- 
wards making  computation  of  what  you  had  to  expect,  you  would 
find  yourself  in  the  position  of  the  undeveloped  races.  You 
could  not  count  far,  perhaps,  but  you  could  count  securely.  It 
was  like  saying  i,  2,  3,  upon  the  fingers. 

He  saw  that  she  had  not  even  listened  to  his  urging  that  she 
should  share  that  part  of  his  programme  she  admitted  she  almost 
envied.  'As  I  say,  I  had  thought  of  going  to  Leicestershire; 
but  on  reflection  I  think  Brook  Street  will  do  me.  If  you  don't 
feel  up  to  anything  to-night,  when  shall  I  come  to-morrow  ? ' 

'  To-morrow  ? ' 

'Yes,  to-morrow.'  Patiently  he  sat  there  waiting  for  her 
answer. 

To-morrow!  what  would  the  world  look  like  to-morrow?  For 
Katharine  Dereham  all  the  populations  of  all  the  cities  of  the 
earth  would  be  narrowed  down  to  a  single  man.  To-morrow 
she  would  find  herself  cast  away  on  a  desert  island  with  this 
One.  The  One  who  had  made  her — say  what  she  had  said. 
He  had  not  helped,  nor  ever  so  little  screened  her.  Had  left 
her  from  the  first  to  struggle  quite  alone  in  the  coils  of  the  dragon. 
Her  hand  went  up  to  her  throat  like  one  who  fights  for  breath. 
Love  could  be  like  that  it  seemed — a  Monster  that  came  up 
from  the  roots  of  the  world,  out  of  the  deeps  of  the  sea;  a  thing 
sired  by  Storm  and  mothered  by  the  Dark,  that  seized  hold 
of  the  puny  creatures  of  the  earth,  and  in  spite  of  barriers,  in 
spite  of  all  high  words  and  cleanness  of  the  heart — this  Mon- 
ster of  Mystery,  Ancient  of  Days,  this  Love,  could  coil  ab^ut 
its  victims  till  their  strength  was  spent. 

Was  not  all  the  song  and  story  of  the  Past  a  mere  retelling 
of  this  conflict?  In  its  poor  little  trumpery  modern  guise,  she 
was  fighting  the  same  fight  that  Phaedra  fought,  and  Brynn- 


A  DARK  LANTERN  255 

hilde,  and  all  the  pale  and  sad-eyed  sisterhood,  who  long  ago 
had  shown  the  world  that  a  great  passion  is  a  great  calamity. 
'But  I,  a  poor  and  puny  modern,  what  have  I  to  do  with  these 
terrible  and  elemental  things?  They  are  as  out  of  place  in  my 
life,  as  a  peplum  would  be  on  my  shoulders,  or  sandals  on  my 
feet,  here  in  this  commonplace  Claridge's.'  The  modern  had 
exploded  'magic,'  and  character  was  Fate. 

She  dropped  the  hand  that  had  caught  at  the  close  string  of 
pearls  at  her  neck — and  sitting  erect,  with  eyes  out  of  which 
the  vague  fear  was  vanishing,  heard  the  iteration  at  her  side, 
'What  time  to-morrow?' 

'I'll  let  you  know,  Bertie.' 

'  No,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  now.     It  isn't  much  to  ask  ? ' 

'I  ...  I  can't  possibly  say — any  more  now.'  She  stood  up. 
'I  think  I  told  you  I  might  have  to  go  away  at  once.'  (A  long 
way  off  now,  that  voice:  'Victoria  at  ten.')  'Good-bye.'  She 
held  out  her  hand.  As  he  took  it,  warmly  yet  without  undue 
pressure,  she  suddenly  tightened  her  own  hold — found  herself 
clinging  to  this  hand  so  unexpectedly,  a  little  half-hour  ago,  held 
out. 

'Bertie,  what  are  you  doing  to-night?' 

'Why,  I  told  you — going  to '    He  looked  at  her  hard, 

'No  I'm  not  either!    I'm  coming  back  here  after  dinner.' 

'You  mustn't  do  that,'  she  said  quickly. 

Bertie  wavered  a  moment,  but  his  manners  saved  him,  as 
they  have  many  another  at  a  moment  when  thought  is  obscured. 
'Of  course  I  won't  come,  if  you  don't  want  me.' 

'No,  not  to-night,'  she  said. 

'I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do!  I'll  be  at  Peterborough  House, 
in  the  library!  I've  had  a  telephone  put  in.  Enough  to  make 
my  uncle  turn  in  his  grave.  It  sits  flaunting  there  at  the  side 
of  his  old  writing-table.  I'll  be  near  it  all  the  evening.' 

'I  can't  have  you  give  up  your  party ' 

'I'll  get  Danby  to  take  it  off  my  hands.  That'll  please  every- 
body!' 

'Bertie,  you're  very  good.' 

'Oh,  I'm  lots  of  things,  but  good  isn't  one  of  'em.' 

'No,  I  shall  not  need  to  telephone,'  she  said  with  an  air  of 
finality, 


256  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Probably  not,  but  I  shall  be  there  all  the  same.  From  after 
dinner  till  midnight,  within  two  feet  of — your  voice.' 

'Good-bye.' 

But  he  kept  beside  her  to  the  lift.  'I'm  going  on  to  the  Bru- 
tons'.  Shall  I  say  you're  here?' 

'Was  the  paper  wrong  about  them,  too?  I  thought  they 
were  in  Egypt.' 

'They  were.  One  of  the  children  got  ill.  They  raced  back.' 
He  was  writing  something  on  a  card. 

'What  is  that?' 

'My  telephone  number.' 

She  took  it.     'No,  don't  tell  the  Brutons  just  yet.' 

'All  right.'  He  lifted  his  shining  hat,  and  appeared  to  be 
sinking  downward  from  Katharine's  own  level  like  the  tradi- 
tional angel  descending  out  of  Paradise,  cleaving  his  way  through 
space  without  effort  or  discomposure,  his  two  feet  side  by  side. 
But  it  was  not  Bertie  who  shot  down — Katharine  going  up  in 
the  swift-flying  lift. 

***** 

'  How  long  does  it  take  to  get  from  here  to  Victoria  ? '  she  asked 
the  servant  who  brought  the  coffee  after  dinner. 

'About  fifteen  minutes.' 

She  looked  at  the  clock.     Not  yet  nine. 

At  a  quarter  past  she  went  suddenly  into  her  bedroom.  'Nat- 
alie!' The  maid  was  not  there.  Katharine  found  a  hat  and 
pinned  it  on  her  head.  Unlocked  her  fitted  travelling  bag,  stared 
at  it,  and  locked  it  again.  Caught  up  her  gloves  and  ran  down- 
stairs, not  waiting  for  the  lift.  'The  telephone  is  over  there,' 
she  said  to  herself.  Aloud,  to  the  man  in  livery  near  the  door: 
'A  hansom,  please.' 

***** 

He  was  waiting  for  her  on  the  platform. 

But  with  no  air  of  expectancy.  The  casual  observer  would 
have  said  the  gentleman  under  the  lamp  was  waiting — yes,  for 
his  train — and  killing  time  by  reading  the  late  edition  of  the 
Westminster  Gazette.  But  Katharine  caught  the  sharp  look 
thrown  out  between  the  top  of  the  paper  and  the  fringe  of  the 
half-dropped  eyelid.  He  did  not  know  her  on  the  instant  through 
her  figured  veil. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  257 

She  went  rapidly  towards  him,  and  saw  the  moment  when 
he  recognised  her.  No  gladness  in  the  look,  almost  a  slacken- 
ing of  taxed  attention — an  effect  of  'Oh,  there  you  are,  are  you?' 

'I  have  come  only  to  tell  you '  She  was  out  of  breath, 

almost  out  of  voice. 

'Wait  a  moment,'  he  interrupted,  folding  up  the  paper  and 
thrusting  it  into  his  pocket  in  the  act  of  turning  away. 

'I  only  wanted  to  say ' 

He  had  his  watch  out.  'You  can  talk  in  the  train.'  And 
now  he  was  going  back  along  the  platform. 

She  followed  him  a  few  steps  breathlessly.  'I'm  here  only 
because  I  promised ' 

'Yes,  yes' — he  smiled  over  his  shoulder  with  a  grimness  that 
summoned  all  her  womanhood  to  arms. 

'Just  to  make  my  word  good — to  clear  it  of  caprice  and  to 
tell  you ' 

'I'll  get  your  ticket.' 

'I  don't  want  a  ticket — I ' 

He  was  gone. 

She  stood  an  instant  looking  after  him;  then  with  swift  steps 
followed  on  again  in  the  same  direction — hesitated  the  fraction 
of  a  moment  at  the  entrance  of  the  booking-office,  turned,  and 
disappeared  under  a  black  board  on  which  white  letters  adver- 
tised: WAY  OUT. 

As  the  clock  hand  pointed  to  ten  minutes  past  ten,  in  one  of 
the  little  telephone  cabinets  off  the  hall  at  Claridge's,  a  white- 
faced  woman  was  standing,  receiver  at  ear. 

'Are  you  there,  Bertie?' 

'Yes.' 

'A — is  everything  just  as  it  used  to  be?' 

'Absolutely  the  same.' 

'Of  course  I  mean  the  library?' 

'It's  all  just  the  same — except  that  I've  established  communi- 
cation with  you.' 

'  Good-night.' 

'Good-night.' 


CHAPTER  V 

FOR  three  days  Katharine  shut  herself  up  in  the  hotel.  Bertie 
called  every  afternoon,  and  was  each  time  told,  'Miss  Dereham  is 
unable  to  see  anyone.'  On  the  fourth  day  he  was  met  by  the  news 
that  Miss  Dereham  was  gone. 

'Gone  where?'     She  had  left  no  address. 

It  was  out  of  sheer  formless  dread  of  Vincent  that  Katharine 
left  the  hotel  where  he  knew  she  was.  Not  that  she  could  se- 
riously think  he  would  come  here  for  her — and  yet,  there  he  stood 
at  every  turn,  by  the  door,  in  the  lobby,  on  the  stair,  with  his 
face  of  menace,  or  with  that  derisive  smile,  even  now  a  vision 
to  shake  the  heart.  She  reasoned  with  herself  in  vain.  Called  it 
nerves,  denied  it  was  the  all-imperative  call  of  that  mysterious 
election  in  the  blood  that  cries  out  day  and  night,  'My  own, 
my  own,  give  to  me  my  own.' 

How  long  would  it  be  like  this  ?  Was  London  to  be  impossible 
to  her  forever,  for  dread  of  one  man's  eyes?  Would  the  hour 
never  come  when  she  could  meet  them  steadfastly  ? 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  that  Bertie  was  told  she  had  gone 
from  the  hotel  without  leaving  her  address,  he  found  her  at  the 
Brutons'.  Yes,  she  was  going  to  stay  with  Blanche  a  few  days, 
till  she  could  make  more  definite  plans. 

'What  has  happened?'  he  said. 

'  Happened  ? ' 

'Yes.    You  look — as  if  you'd  seen  a  ghost.' 

'Perhaps  I  have.' 

'Well,  look  at  me.' 

She  smiled:  'Do  you  think  the  sight  of  you  will  set  the  ghosts 
to  flight?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  259 

'Rather.  I  say,  Kitty '  She  interrupted  him,  speaking 

quite  slowly  and  with  those  eyes  that  had  seen  a  ghost  fixed  upon 
him: 

'I  almost  think  that,  of  the  men  who've  said  they  love  me, 
you ' 

'Yes?' 

'You've  liked  me  best.     I'm  very  grateful  to  you  for  that.' 

'Liked  you!    Is  that  a  reflection  on  the  way  I've  made  love?' 

'No.  It's  only  to  say  you've  been  blessedly  quiet  about  it  all 
— yet  you've  always  given  me  a  feeling  that  you  liked  me.' 

'It  don't  somehow  sound  the  right  sort  of  raging '  She 

smiled,  a  light  of  kindness  in  her  face.  'Look  here,  Kitty.  I 
could  rage — more  or  less — if  that's  what  you  want.' 

'  My  dear  Bertie,  that  you  don't,  never  have  raged,  makes  me — 
makes  me ' 

He  waited,  and  then  with  sudden  misgiving:  'Are  you  going 
to  marry  Waldenstein  after  all?'  he  demanded. 

'No.' 

'I  know  he  asked  you,  not  three  weeks  ago.  I  saw  him  the 
day  he  went  to  Torquay — and  I  saw  him  after  he  got  back.  I 
was  even  a  little  sorry  for  him.  Are  you  a  little  sorry — that  you 
said  no?  Is  that  it?' 

'No.    That's  not  it.' 

'Would  you  say  "no"  again?'  She  nodded  wearily.  'Then 
you'll  marry  me.' 

'I  shall  never  marry  anybody.' 

'That's  absurd.     You  aren't  the  kind  to  live  alone.' 

'It  may  be  that  that  makes  me  feel ' 

'What?' 

'The  need  of  a  friend.     I  want  a  friend  most  terribly.' 

'Well,  I'm  here.'  If  he  had  taken  her  hand,  or  made  any  of 
the  customary  demonstrations,  that  would  have  been  the  end. 
He  sat  quite  still. 

'But '     She  stopped. 

'Well?' 

'I  meant  only  what  I  said.    A  friend.' 

'I  understand.' 

'No,  you  don't.  I  want  to  be  honest  with  you.  At  least, 
while  I  don't  want  to  tell  you  everything,  I  want ' 


2<5o  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'You  needn't  tell  me  a  mortal  thing.  I'd  rather  make  you 
forget.  Come  to  Sicily.  We'll  make  up  a  party  if  you  like — 
though  I  shall  hate  the  rest.  It's  the  kind  of  thing  the  Brutons 
would  like,  if  they  aren't  afraid  to  leave  that  boy  of  theirs.' 

'They  might  bring  Freddy  along.     It  would  do  him  good.' 

' Kitty I  You  mean  to  come!  But  what's  the  use  of  worrying 
with  a  party?' 

'Ah,  I  knew  you  wouldn't  be  content  to  have  me  as  a  friend/ 

'Try  me.' 

'How  long  could  you  be  content  so?' 

'As  long  as — those  were  your  terms. 

'You  think,  perhaps,  I  shall  change.  You  are  building  on 
that.' 

'No,  I  almost  wish  I  were.' 

'It  would  be  a  great  pity  for  you ' 

'The  only  thing  that  would  be  a  pity  would  be  that  I  should 
go  alone!' 

'Bertie,  something  has  happened  that  makes  me  shrink  from — 

gives  me  a  great  horror  of One  side  of  life  is  spoiled  for  me, 

spoiled  utterly.' 

'Poor  Kitty  1' 

She  looked  at  the  incarnate  kindness  sitting  there,  till  a  rush  of 
tears  dimmed  it. 

'Friendship,'  she  said — 'friendship  is  a  very  noble  thing.' 

'Yes,'  agreed  Bertie,  and  she  smiled,  but  the  flicker  went  out 
upon  his  adding:  'There's  only  one  thing  better.' 

'Oh,  Bertie — go  away  and  find  the  one  thing  better.' 

'I  shall  never  find  it  away  from  you.' 

'You  will  never  find  it  with  me.' 

'Then  I  shall  not  find  it.' 

'That  is  the  face  he  took  into  battle,'  she  thought.  But  for 
herself,  a  sense  of  warmth  and  safety  wrapped  her  round,  with  this 
coming  close  again  of  the  old  familiar  life.  When  memory 
stabbed  at  her,  she  would  shrink  and  say  to  herself  half-piteously, 
like  one  before  a  court  of  justice,  making  out  her  case:  'Yes,  I 
don't  deny  I  thought  and  said  all  those  terrible,  appalling  things, 
but  it  was  part  of  my  illness.  I  am  nearly  well  now.  I  am 
another  creature.'  Yet  in  her  happiest  moods,  recollection  of 
Vincent  would  strike  her  laughter  silent,  and  set  her  nerves  to 


A  DARK  LANTERN  261 

twanging  harshly.  The  terror  of  meeting  him  did  not  lessen. 
What  should  she  do  if  she  did  meet  him?  She  would  not  pay 
visits  in  Portland  Place,  because  it  meant  going  by  Cavendish 
Square.  She  would  not  go  to  Worcester  House  for  fear  Vincent 
might  be  still  in  attendance  upon  the  Duke — might  meet  her  at 
the  door  or  on  the  stair. 

It  was  her  first  acquaintance  with  terror.  No  one  so  well  as 
Bertie  helped  to  exorcise  the  demon — and  though  he  was  far 
enough  from  guessing  at  the  source  of  his  new  acceptableness,  he 
availed  himself  of  it,  in  his  pleasant  smiling  way,  from  morning 
till  midnight.  When  Katharine  felt  tempted  to  draw  back  from 
him,  the  thought  of  that  possible  encounter  with  Vincent  was 
all-sufficient  to  serve  Bertie's  cause. 

He  saw  his  affairs  in  so  hopeful  a  light  that  he  accepted  with 
patience  the  brief  postponement  necessitated  by  Katharine's 
going  to  pay  her  little  yearly  visit  to  Madame  de  Courcelles.  She 
was  to  cross  that  night,  in  spite  of  the  storm  that  had  come  in 
with  the  dawn,  and  increased  as  the  day  wore  on. 

'I  don't  mind  the  wind  and  the  rain,'  Katharine  said  as  they 
stood  about  the  fire  drinking  coffee  after  luncheon — 'I  only  mind 
leaving  Blanche  in  the  midst  of  this  new  anxiety  about  Freddy.' 

'Oh,  I'm  not  anxious  any  more,'  said  Mrs.  Bruton,  cheerfully, 
'I've  got  Moore  to  call  in  Dr.  Vincent.  There's  Moore  now!'  she 
said,  glancing  through  the  open  door  at  a  middle-aged  man,  who 
could  be  seen  slowly  and  pompously  wending  his  way  upstairs. 
Mrs.  Bruton  set  down  her  coffee  cup,  excused  herself,  and  has- 
tened after  the  family  adviser.  Katharine  stood  quite  still,  by 
the  far  end  of  the  mantelpiece  facing  the  door.  'Shut  itl  shut 
the  door,  Blanche!'  she  prayed  inwardly.  But  the  door  stood 
wide. 

The  Chiltern  girls  who  had  been  lunching,  talked  on.  Bertie 
was  in  first-rate  spirits,  despite  the  impending  journey.  They 
chattered  and  laughed.  Katharine  stood  asking  silently  why  she 
did  not  pull  herself  together,  and  go  and  close  the  door.  Wheels 
outside.  Something  stopped.  She  turned  her  head.  All  she 
could  see  through  the  window  was  about  two  feet  of  a  whip,  but 
she  felt  the  sting  of  it  like  a  lash  across  her  face.  Fascinated 
she  watched  the  end  trembling — was  his  hand  on  it?  What  if 
it  were  ?  Her  heart  was  not  hanging  on  that  string,  though  she 


262  A  DARK  LANTERN 

did  have  the  distinct  sensation  that,  invisible,  it  dangled  out  there 
in  the  cold  and  wet,  shivering,  at  the  end  of  his  whip. 

A  peal  at  the  bell,  a  sharp  attack  upon  the  knocker.  Still 
there  was  time  to  shut  the  door,  and  still  she  stood  there.  The 
top  of  a  black  head  moved  quickly  up  between  the  pillars  of  the 
banister;  the  white  of  gleaming  eyes  intensified  by  the  pupils' 
scintillant  black,  that  flung  a  passing  look  into  the  drawing-room. 
He  never  slackened  that  pace  of  his  that  was  half  a  run.  But  as 
he  mounted  the  second  stair,  he  turned  his  head  and  across  the 
balustrade  met  Katharine's  eyes.  No  mark  of  recognition,  no 
change  in  the  set  face,  save  that  the  shining  eyes  were  suddenly 
suffused,  the  pupils  not  dimmed,  but  the  white  turned  red.  And 
now  he  was  gone. 

'Why,  Kitty,'  Gladys  Chiltern  said,  'wasn't  that  your  doctor?' 

'Yes.' 

'And  doesn't  he  even  say  "How  do  you  do?"  to  you?' 

Bertie  looked  round.  '  Oh,  was  that  Vincent  ?  I  must  say  it's 
ungrateful  of  you,  Kitty,  not  to  have  gone  and  spoken  to  him.' 

'I  know  other  people  he's  cured,  who  can't  stand  him  either,' 
said  Gladys.  'Now,  I  think  I'd  rather  like  him.  Make  him 
come  in  as  he  goes  down.  I  want  to  look  at  the  creature.' 

'Why,'  said  Bertie,  jumping  up  from  his  armchair  by  the  fire, 
'you're  shivering,  Kitty.  It  is  too  cold  with  that  door  open.' 

'Yes,  shut  it,'  said  Katharine. 

'No,  no,'  objected  Gladys.  'I  want  to  see  him  as  he  comes 
down.' 

But  Bertie  had  obeyed  Katharine.  As  the  others  talked  on, 
she  sat  and  listened  for  footsteps,  and  had  not  long  to  wait. 
'Now!'  she  admonished  herself,  'if  I  am  a  rational  being  I'll  break 
this  spell,  I'll  get  up,  go  out  and  speak  to  him — tell  him  about 
Bertie.' 

The  group  round  the  fire,  in  the  midst  of  a  laughing  discussion, 
hardly  noticed  as  Katharine  rose  quietly  and  crossed  the  room. 
She  reached  the  door,  opened  it  a  little.  He  was  coming  down- 
stairs, the  anxious  mother  at  his  heels.  Katharine  was  sure  that 
she  was  going  out  to  speak  to  him.  But  the  impulse  seemed  not 
so  much  to  weaken,  as  to  be  impossible  to  obey.  Her  hand  on 
the  knob,  lamed;  her  feet  so  near  the  threshold  smitten  with 
paralysis.  He  was  saying  '  no  immediate  danger.'  But  would  he 


A  DARK  LANTERN  263 

come  again  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Bruton  begged.  'Not  necessary.' 
'Yes,  yes,  it  would  make  such  a  difference,  if  you  would  come.' 
A  fraction  of  an  instant  he  seemed  to  hesitate — looked  over  the 
banister  again,  as  he  had  done  in  going  up,  saw  the  drawing- 
room  door  ajar,  and  let  his  gleaming  eyes  fall  upon  the  face  that 
looked  out  at  him.  Katharine  tried  to  take  her  fingers  from  the 
knob,  tried  to  go  forth  and  tell  him  what  she  had  not  yet  told 
Bertie — that  she  was  going  to  marry  Mr.  Amherst.  She  must 
herself  tell  that  to  Vincent.  Only  so  would  the  dark  influence  be 
exorcised,  and  the  future  safe.  And  instead  of  going  out  upon  the 
errand,  there  she  stood — feeling  pitifully  what  sadness  lay  under- 
neath the  harshness  of  that  face,  and  again  as  before,  how  the 
riddle  of  the  painful  earth  seemed  written  there. 

Blanche,  bending  towards  him,  with  her  hand  on  the  banisters, 
urged  his  coming  back '  to-morrow.'  '  Impossible  before  Monday,' 
he  said  abruptly,  and  over  Mrs.  Bruton's  head  again  he  dropped 
that  look  on  Katharine,  that  held  her  as  Arctic  iron  holds  and 
burns  bare  flesh.  To  draw  away,  is  to  wrench  and  tear  the  living 
tissues.  The  only  safety  lies  in  submission  to  the  searing  contact. 
She  bent  her  head — less  like  one  saying,  'How  do  you  do?'  than 
like  one  saying  simply  'Yes.' 

Still  Mrs.  Bruton's  anxious  voice  ventured  to  hope  that  'to- 
morrow'— he  hurried  down  the  stair.  Out  of  his  refusal  three 
words — 'the  country  to-night' — came  like  a  command  as  he 
passed  the  door  that  stood  ajar — the  face  no  longer  there.  Gladys's 
derisive  laughter  had  made  Katharine  turn. 

'You're  afraid  of  him,'  the  girl  announced  gleefully. 

'He  is  talking  to  Blanche  about  Freddy.'  Katharine  came 
back  to  the  fire.  She  lifted  her  eyes,  and  again  through  the 
window  saw  the  whip  lash  tremble,  fly  into  the  air,  describe  a 
wild  fantastic  curve,  and  disappear  in  the  grey  wet  of  the  windy 
December  afternoon.  Something  of  herself  was  surely  dangling 
on  the  lash. 

*  *  *  *  * 

She  bade  Bertie  good-bye  after  tea.  No,  she  preferred  it  like 
that.  She  hated  to  be  'seen  off.'  It  was  an  inane  custom. 

She  would  not  even  allow  Wilfred  Bruton  to  come  to  the 
station.  Blanche  needed  him.  Natalie  was  an  experienced  if 
unenthusiastic  traveller. 


264  A  DARK  LANTERN 

It  afforded  that  person  no  small  astonishment,  however,  to  find 
herself  steaming  out  of  Victoria  Station  on  the  eight  o'clock  train, 
while  Miss  Katharine  stood  beside  her  dressing-bag  and  jewel- 
case  out  there  on  the  platform,  asking  the  way  to  the  telegraph- 
office.  Miss  Katharine  had  changed  her  mind  while  she  was 
getting  out  of  the  cab.  Well,  to  be  sure,  how  she  did  care  for 
that  poor  little  sick  Freddy!  Or  was  it  sympathy  for  his  mother's 
anxiety?  Natalie,  at  all  events,  had  got  at  last  the  long-delayed 
permission  to  go  for  a  visit  to  her  own  people. 

*  *  *  #  * 

For  an  hour  and  three-quarters  Katharine  sat  in  the  dismal 
station,  scrutinizing  by  turn  wet  travellers,  and  the  face  of  a  small 
watch,  or  in  the  quiet  times  after  train  departures,  still  sat  there 
with  body  slightly  forward-bent  over  clasped  hands,  staring  down 
in  front  of  her  at  the  track  left  by  muddy  feet  and  the  trail  of 
dripping  umbrellas, — studied  these  signs  with  an  air  of  fixity 
befitting  some  Champollion  deciphering  an  obscure  inscription. 
Looking  back  afterwards,  she  had  no  clear  recollection  of  writing 
the  note  to  Bertie,  or  the  telegram  to  Madame  de  Courcelles, 
yet  she  sat  there  with  both  note  and  telegram  crushed  together 
in  her  hand. 

*  #  *  *  * 

He  never  even  paused  when  he  caught  sight  of  her.  She  knew 
he  had  seen  that  she  sat  there.  She  found  herself  behind  him  at 
the  gate. 

'Tell  the  man  to  let  me  through,'  she  said.  He  turned  and 
shot  a  look  at  her  over  his  shoulder.  They  stood  so,  arraigning 
each  other. 

'Pass  on,  please,'  said  the  ticket-inspector. 

'It's  all  right,'  muttered  Vincent  hurriedly,  as  though  the 
words  were  surprised  out  of  him.  Katharine  was  allowed  to  pass. 
She  walked  beside  him,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  No  word. 

'You  minded — you  minded  it  that  I  didn't  come  before.' 

'Minded?' 

'Yes,  I  saw  that  in  your  face  to-day.' 

'Humph!     You  read  faces  as  well  as  hands?' 

It  struck  her  miserably,  as  they  walked  on,  that  this  time  he 
made  no  move  to  get  her  a  ticket.  Oh  no,  he  had  tried  that 
before.  Even  that  first  time,  he  had  waited  to  get  it  till  she  was 


A  DARK  LANTERN  265 

actually  here.  Had  he,  even  before  she  failed  him,  felt  obscurely 
(as  it  might  have  been  herself)  that  to  make  too  sure,  to  stand 
ticket  in  hand,  were  to  tempt  the  Fates — were  to  give  the  mocking 
weavers  of  destiny  yet  one  chance  more  to  turn  the  pattern  to 
grotesquerie  ?  A  new  wretchedness  fell  upon  her  as  she  felt  what 
it  had  been,  to  just  this  man,  to  start  upon  his  journey  with  a 
superfluous  fare  in  his  pocket.  '  Less  my  absence,'  she  told  herself 
humbly,  'than  the  presence  of  the  ticket,  unclaimed,  derisive. 
'You  hit  me  pretty  hard  once.'  Twice?  She  stole  a  sideways 
glance.  Not  a  third  time,  if  caution  could  safeguard  a  man.  She 
stopped  suddenly. 

'Is  there  time  before  the  train  goes  to  send  this  wire?'  she 
asked,  holding  out  the  message  to  Auteuil.  He  paused,  not 
taking  the  paper: 

'The  train  to  where?' 

She  shrank.  ' hit  me  pretty  hard  once,'  she  repeated  to 

herself — maybe  twice,  certainly  no  third  time.  Vividly  before 
her  eyes,  that  envelope  he  had  given  her  in  the  motor,, 

'To  High  Winston,'  she  said. 

His  answer  was  to  draw  out  his  watch. 

'And  this  letter,  please ' 

He  took  the  two,  half  turned,  and  then  looked  back  with  a 
sudden  rather  sinister  smile. 

'No,  no,'  she  went  nearer — 'don't '  He  turned  his  head 

so  resolutely  away  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  'You  are  not 
to  remember — you  must  know  there  is — for  me — no  turning  back, 
now,' 

She  stood  and  watched  him  going  down  the  platform. 

The  friendly  porter  appeared  with  her  bag. 

'Is  this  your  train?    Where  shall  I  label ' 

She  repeated  the  name  of  the  place. 

The  man  found  her  a  corner  seat,  put  the  small  things  in,  and 
went  away  for  the  others.  Katharine  kept  her  jewel-case  in  her 
hand,  and  stood  on  the  platform  by  the  open  door.  Suppose  he 
doesn't  come  back! 

The  rebound  from  that  fear  was  so  great  that,  as  far  off  down 
there,  near  the  gate,  he  detached  himself  from  the  gloom  and 
came  towards  her,  she  felt  like  a  creature  rescued. 

The  reaction  from  those  few  seconds'  doubt,  came  in  the  guise 


266  A  DARK  LANTERN 

of  a  reassurance  so  warm  and  fear-allaying,  that  a  strange  sensa- 
tion mastered  her,  of  its  being  an  old  custom  for  her  thus  to  stand 
at  week  ends,  waiting  for  him  to  join  her  in  the  train.  Not  a 
clandestine  creature  in  a  veil — she  felt  underneath  her  excitement 
a  sense  of  the  naturalness,  the  fitness  of  it  all,  as  if  she  were  his 
wife,  had  been  his  wife  for  years. 

'Only  half  a  minute  to  spare,'  he  said,  holding  the  door  for  her. 
She  got  in  and  sat  down.  Vincent  still  stood  on  the  platform. 
What  was  he  waiting  for?  she  wondered  impatiently.  Oh,  he 
had  sent  for  a  foot- warmer;  the  man  was  coming  with  it. 

A  passenger  hurrying  by,  stopped  and  spoke.  Vincent  greeted 
him  as  an  acquaintance.  Although  he  stood  with  his  face  towards 
Vincent  and  away  from  the  carriage,  Katharine  shrank  back  in 
her  corner.  All  the  fancied  'naturalness'  of  the  situation  fled 
out  of  it.  It  was  very  new  for  Katharine  Dereham  to  feel  awk- 
ward, shamefaced,  at  unavoidable  disadvantage — afraid;  and 
she  suddenly  felt  all  these  things.  The  hot-water  tank  was  pushed 
in.  The  porter  was  closing  the  door,  shutting  Vincent  out. 
Katharine  lifted  a  sudden  staying  hand,  and  her  anxious  eye 
caught  Vincent's.  He  smiled;  a  little  wickedly,  but,  Saints  in 
Heaven!  what  a  light  it  made — his  smiling! 

At  the  last  moment  he  entered  the  carriage,  his  bluff,  middle- 
aged  friend  following  hard  upon  his  heels,  talking  about  the  pro- 
jected change  in  the  time-table.  It  was  plain  he  had  not  seen 
Vincent's  smile,  had  no  notion  but  what  he  was  alone. 

What  will  he  do?  What  do  men  do  under  such  conditions? 
She  remembered  Hilda  Carey  and  Oscar  Warburton.  That  she, 
Katharine  Dereham,  should  come  to  play  poor  Hilda's  part  in  the 
ugly  little  comedy.  A  story  of  Bourget's  came  back  to  her — all 
sorts  of  'shady'  escapades,  out  of  fiction  and  out  of  life,  chased 
one  another  through  her  head.  Will  he  pretend  we  are  strangers  ? 
— and  she  felt  her  gorge  rise  at  the  prospect  of  the  cheap  deceit. 
Swiftly  foresaw,  too,  the  difficulty  at  the  other  end.  It  was  so 
late,  there  were  few  passengers.  No  hope  of  being  lost  in  a  crowd. 
And  the  bluff  acquaintance  would  not  miss  any  detail  in  the 
vulgar  subterfuge  by  which,  hanging  about,  lurking  behind 
luggage,  or  at  the  station  corner,  she  should  at  last  perforce  be 
claimed  and  carried  off — close  upon  the  midnight  hour! 

While  she  was  being  ground   under  these  prognostications, 


A  DARK  LANTERN  267 

Vincent  had  turned  to  her  and  said  quite  simply:  'Can  we  have 
the  window  open  that  much?' 

'Yes,'  she  answered.  The  acquaintance  stared.  But  Vincent, 
still  talking  time-table,  pushed  the  hot-water  tank  under  Katha- 
rine's feet.  'Thank  you,'  she  said,  feeling  suddenly  that  he  could 
be  trusted,  even  here,  and  again  that  it  was  '  natural '  to  have  him 
looking  after  her.  The  talk  between  the  two  men  was  now  about 
a  horse  sale;  Vincent  asked  especially  about  a  certain  mare. 
He  prompted  his  horsey  friend  upon  some  question  of  pedigree, 
and  the  argument  waxed  hot.  Katharine's  thoughts  left  the  two 
men  and  went  whirling  on  before,  wheeling  giddily  like  flocks  of 
frightened  birds,  now  darting  back  upon  the  past,  and  then  on — 
on  to  what  lay  before. 

Still  the  talk  of  horses  went  forward  without  a  pause,  the  bluff 
man  doing  the  major  part,  the  other  listening,  dissenting,  correct- 
ing, throwing  in  one  word  to  the  other's  twenty,  but  by  that  one 
steering  the  course  of  the  score.  For  some  moments  from  under 
her  veil,  Katharine  kept  covert  watch  upon  the  dark,  ungentle 
face.  '  Oh,  I  love  you — I  love  you,'  she  said  in  her  heart.  Then, 
turning  to  meet  the  wind  that  rushed  in  at  the  window :  '  Does  he 
— shall  I  make  him  love  me?  Shall  I?' 

The  train  had  stopped  several  times — but  no  one  had  got  in. 
Now  as  they  went  on  again  Katharine  made  a  visor  with  her 
hands,  shielding  her  eyes  from  the  ceiling  lamp,  and  looking  out 
upon  the  countryside.  The  air  smelt  of  wet  earth,  of  sodden 
dead  leaves,  of  dripping  woodland.  But  nothing  here,  away  from 
station  lights,  nothing  could  be  plainly  seen.  A  gale  of  wind  was 
sweeping  the  black  moonless  world.  It  seemed  to  be  the  wind 
and  not  the  train  that  was  carrying  her  away. 

Vincent,  still  talking  or  listening  to  his  friend,  was  making  the 
window  fast  in  spite  of  her:  'I  don't  feel  cold.' 

'It's  too  much,'  and  the  sash  was  pulled  up  tight. 

As  he  turned  his  head  to  answer  something  his  friend  had  said, 
it  occurred  to  Katharine  that  he  was  treating  her  as  Germans 
treat  their  wives,  as  though  in  the  rational  councils  of  the  lords  of 
the  universe,  women  naturally  had  neither  art  nor  part — not  only 
needed  not  to  be  appealed  to,  needed  not  even  to  be  remembered 
— unless  they  seemed  likely  to  catch  cold,  or  do  something  else 
of  a  silly  and  purely  feminine  character.  And  she  smiled  under 


268  A  DARK  LANTERN 

her  veil,  not  ill-pleased  at  either  his  care  or  his  neglect.  It 
indulged  her  fancy  that  the  situation  was  that  of  plain  and 
simple  folk  long  wed. 

She  glanced  down  at  the  skirt  of  her  brown  cloth  gown,  muddied 
by  the  hansom  wheel.  What  would  it  be  like,  trying  to  get  on 
without  a  maid?  Should  she  find  some  one  'down  there'? 
Whether  she  did  or  not,  her  instinct  had  been  right;  it  was  not 
possible  to  face  the  idea  of  bringing  even  a  devoted  servant  out 
of  the  old  life  to  be  witness  of  the  new.  There  must  be  no  eyes. 
And  this  not  for  the  sake  of  those  conventions  she  was  leaving 
behind;  still  less  for  prudence'  sake.  A  question  of  nerves.  No 
eyes  had  ever  had  the  right  to  look  at  Katharine  Dereham  as 
they  might  to-night — and  from  this  hour,  on.  But  just  now,  no 
eyes.  Not  that  she  was  actually  afraid  now,  or  even  doubtful. 
But  she  had  intensely  that  sense  of  isolation,  that  comes  of  a 
resolve  to  act  in  blind  obedience  to  some  inner  call,  whose  voice 
no  other  will  ever  fully  understand,  and  few  even  faintly  hear. 
And  so:  no  eyes,  no  ears.  She  glanced  across  the  carriage, 
encountered  Vincent's  level  look,  and  turned  again  to  the  dark 
square  of  the  window.  There  would  be  his  ears  to  hear — his 
merciless  eyes  to  meet.  She  would  need  all  her  courage  to  face 
that  light,  unflinching. 

Natalie,  a  good  deal  taken  aback  at  her  mistress's  sudden 
determination — Natalie,  not  over-pleased,  will  have  a  rough 
crossing,  thought  her  mistress;  adding  with  conscious  grimness' 
'And  I,  too,  I'm  likely  to  have  a  rough  crossing.' 

Now  they  were  stopping  again.  The  horsey  man  raised  his 
voice — he  raised  his  hand,  too,  and  laid  it  on  the  window-strap 
before  the  train  pulled  up.  He  was  evidently  getting  out  here — 
and  still  the  same  theme. 

The  wind  rushed  in,  and  the  man,  alighting,  held  fast  to  his 
hat.  Vincent  did  the  same  while  he  shut  the  door,  saying  through 
the  window:  'That  mare  for  sale?  Send  her  over  to-morrow 
morning.  I'll  have  a  look  at  her.' 

'All  right.     Good-night.'    The  horsey  man  was  gone. 

'  Only  one  more  station,'  Vincent  said.  He  pulled  up  the  sash 
again  and  leaned  back,  stretching  out  his  hands  upon  his  knees. 
He  glanced  down  at  them  reflectively,  and  suddenly  laughed. 
'So  you  read  hands  1  Can  you  read  your  own?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  269 

He  was  still  looking  at  his,  with  something  of  the  same  atten- 
tiveness  he  had  shown  in  the  motor.  Two  hours  before  she 
had  drawn  off  her  glove  to  write  the  note  to  Bertie.  Her  bare 
right  hand  lay  now  upon  her  muff.  Jewels  flashed  and  signalled 
for  admiration.  But  Vincent  seemed  as  little  to  see  the  wink- 
ing jewels  as  the  hand  upon  the  muff.  He  was  holding  both 
his  own  palms  up  to  Katharine  with:  'Now  I'd  like  to  hear 
what's  queer  about  them.' 

He  offered  them  to  her  as  if  he  expected  her  to  take  them, 
palmist  fashion.  She  made  a  little  motion  to  do  so,  and  then 
checked  herself.  She  no  more  dared  to  touch  him  than  if  he 
had  been  flame.  And  he  was  still  holding  up  his  hands,  and 
almost  boyishly,  'Tell  me  what's  queer  about  them,'  he  said. 

'They're  not  like  the  rest  of  you.' 

'How  do  you  make  that  out?' 

'Why,  because  you — you — the  rest  of  you,'  she  indicated 
faintly  with  her  ungloved  hand  the  bold  hard  face  bending  near, 
the  square  of  shoulder,  in  general  the  strong  and  well-knit  frame. 
But  as  he  still  sat  there,  holding  up  his  hands  and  looking  from 
them  to  her — 'because  the  rest  of  you  is  very  masculine  and 
your  hands  are  ...  as  I've  said.' 

'Are  what?' 

'Why,  not  like  English  hands  at  all.' 

'I  don't  see  that,'  he  said  sharply,  like  one  rebutting  a  damag- 
ing accusation. 

'Well,  you  look  at  other  people's.  There  are  more  ugly  hands 
in  England  than  in  any  country  in  the  world.  And  besides, 
yours  are  sensitive  hands.' 

'Where  do  you  find  that?'  he  said,  grinning. 

She  must  justify  herself,  and  not  let  him  think  she  was  merely 
flattering  him.  'Look  at  the  finger-tips.' 

He  obeyed  with  a  sudden  comical  gravity,  but  seemed  to 
derive  less  satisfaction  than  he  had  anticipated. 

'Turn  them  over.'  She  laid  her  muff  down  on  the  seat  beside 
her,  and  bent  forward  a  little.  'Lay  them  down  so,'  she  illus- 
trated. An  instant's  tingling  ran  through  her,  as  she  saw  he 
might  think  she  meant  him  to  lay  them  in  her  lap.  'Here,'  she 
said  hurriedly,  'here  is  your  paper.'  She  laid  it  across  his  knees. 
'Now  don't  you  see?'  She  bent  further  over. 


270  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Look  at  the  line  down  the  side.  No — here,  from  little  finger 
to  wrist.  How  good  the  curve  is ' 

'Oh,  good  is  it?' 

' and  how  slim  the  wrist  is '    With  her  forefinger  she 

had  indicated  the  curve,  following  the  line  described  only  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  from  his  hand,  following  it  slowly  from  little 
finger-tip  down  to  wrist,  to  where  the  short  black  hair  came 
out  from  the  white  cuff — and  suddenly  it  was  as  if,  after  all,  she 
had  touched  him.  She  drew  back  and  leaned  her  head  against 
the  cushioned  wall.  While  he  still  sat  an  instant  frowning  at  his 
palm-down  hands,  she  said  to  herself:  'The  kind  of  lean  hands 
to  do  Black  Magic — healing  to  the  verge  of  the  miraculous  if  he 
will,  but  hinting  at  other  powers  as  well' — powers  to  which  she 
refused  to  give  a  name. 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  lasting  impression  of  the  arrival  at  High  Winston,  was  a 
thing  compounded  of  black  night  and  moaning  wind.  Great 
trees  tossed  about  an  old  house.  The  ghost  of  a  light  flitted  from 
window  to  window,  and  halted  at  last  in  the  hall.  Katharine 
remembered  with  shrinking  the  one  question  she  had  put  at  the 
end  of  the  journey:  What  about  the  servants? 

'What  servants?' 

'Yours.' 

'Well?    They're  my  servants.     I'm  not  theirs.' 

In  lieu  of  welcome,  they  were  set  upon  by  dogs.  Vincent 
cursed  them,  and  then  forgot  his  human  companion  in  pleased 
acceptance  of  canine  apologies. 

An  old  woman  with  a  lamp,  murmuring  through  Vincent's 
'Where's  Jackson?'  that  her  son  had  gone  down  to  prevent  more 
damage  being  done  by  the  high  wind  to  the  unfinished  stable; 
and  how  he  had  expected  to  be  back,  but  thought  'no  matter 
what '  the  master  would  expect  him  to  look  after  the  new  stables. 
While  Katharine  digested  her  grim  adventure  under  the  aspect  of 
'no  matter  what,'  Vincent  was  inquiring  into  the  supposed  damage, 
with  an  absorbed  solicitude  he  had  never  betrayed  in  finding  out 
the  havoc  wrought  by  disease  upon  the  human  frame. 

Firing  off  quick  questions,  he  had  divested  himself  of  his  coat. 
Katharine  stood  in  hers.  The  dogs  still  barked  at  her,  between 
their  master's  threats,  and  in  intervals  of  leaping  round  him 


A  DARK  LANTERN  271 

trying  to  lick  his  face.  A  gust  of  wind  blew  open  a  door  in  some 
region  beyond.  The  old  woman  went  to  shut  it,  still  muttering 
about  the  storm.  Vincent  was  putting  on  his  coat  again. 
Katharine  looked  at  the  dark  face  for  a  sign.  A  sign,  man! 
A  sign! 

He  spoke  to  the  dogs. 

On  an  impulse  Katharine  moved  back  to  the  front  door,  which, 
left  ajar,  the  wind  had  blown  half  open.  She  peered  out.  The 
hand  of  the  storm  caught  at  her  silk  scarf,  and  seemed  to  draw 
her  into  the  dark.  The  thought  of  flight  contended  with  the 
tears  in  her  throat.  One  step  over  the  sill,  and  the  spell  would 
be  broken.  Now  she  was  crossing  the  dim  threshold — plucked 
at,  welcomed  by  the  many  fingers  of  the  rejoicing  winds.  In 
the  same  instant  from  out  the  shadowy  house,  an  ungentle  hand 
had  fallen  on  her  shoulder.  His  voice: 

'You're  going  the  wrong  way.' 

She  caught  her  breath  in  a  sob.  '  Oh,  Black-Magic  Man,  how 
am  I  to  know?' 

He  crushed  her  suddenly  against  him,  his  lips  were  on  her 
mouth. 

So,  silently,  he  answered  her. 

She  drew  away  with  a  sense  of  terrified  gladness,  and  steadied 
herself  against  the  door,  not  daring  in  that  first  dizzy  moment  to 
lift  her  eyes.  Dark  as  it  was,  she  might  see  too  much.  Trembling 
still,  she  yielded  to  the  hand  that  drew  her  back  into  his  house. 

The  old  woman  was  there  again  like  a  Fate,  looking  on, 
impassive. 

'Take  Mrs.  Vincent  upstairs,'  he  said,  and  Katharine  felt  the 
oddity  of  her  own  swift  relief,  her  gratitude  for  the  shelter  of  a 
name. 

'I'll  see  Jackson,'  he  threw  over  his  shoulder,  and  slammed  the 
door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DURING  the  long  silent  drive  from  the  station  through  the 
windy  dark  she  had  said  to  herself:  'What  sort  of  life  does  he 
lead  here?'  Imagination  was  as  unlit  as  the  night.  She  had 
seen  this  man  at  work — 'What  will  he  be  like  at  play?'  She 
knew  instinctively  that  good  work  confers  dignity,  but  that 
play  borrows  its  qualities  from  the  player.  She  had  not  known 
how  men  worked  before;  she  had  learned  that  with  an  odd  kind 
of  reverence  from  Vincent.  But  she  knew  how  men  played, 
men  who  made  a  profession  of  it,  and  she  shrank  half  uncon- 
sciously from  seeing  this  man,  whose  youth  had  been  spent, 
as  she  vaguely  gathered,  in  vagabonding  about  the  world  among 
the  hardier  sort  of  adventurers,  who  had  late  awaked  to  love  of 
science,  and  had  won  his  extraordinary  place,  not  as  others  said 
by  sheer  force  of  genius,  but,  as  he  said,  '  because  I  worked  like 

hell '  how  was  this  man  going  to  play  his  part  in  that  pretty 

modern  tournament,  English  country  life? 

She  need  not  have  troubled  herself.  He  did  not  play.  He 
went  about  his  property  with  the  same  black-browed  earnest- 
ness that  he  carried  in  town  from  patient  to  patient,  from  lecture- 
room  to  laboratory.  And  with  the  same  success,  wrought  in  the 
same  way,  out  of  love  for  what  he  was  doing.  Wherever  he  had 
gathered  up  such  lore,  he  knew  soils  and  crops  and  cattle,  as  he 
knew  men  and  their  weakness.  To  see  him  among  his  horses 
was  to  feel  he  understood  them  better  than  did  the  grooms,  who 
understood  nothing  else.  He  had  the  land-hunger  of  the  founders 
of  the  great  estates.  Ever  since  she  could  remember  Katharine 
and  her  father  had  been  selling  land.  Lord  Peterborough  from 
different  motives  had  got  rid  of  thousands  of  acres.  But  Vincent, 
whenever  a  neighbouring  farm  came  into  the  market,  added  it 
to  his  possessions — not  merely  to  have  it,  not  merely  to  carry  it 

272 


A  DARK  LANTERN  273 

on  in  the  old  way,  but  to  improve,  to  exemplify  his  favourite 
theory  that  farming  was  not  only  good  fun,  'it  could  be  made  to 
pay.  Katharine  credited  the  pay  at  once,  since  he  said  so,  but 
she  was  sceptical  about  the  fun. 

'When  you  work  so  hard  at  your  profession  all  the  week, 
don't  you  think  you  ought  to  rest  when  you  come  down  here?' 

'What  I  do  here  does  rest  me.' 

She  looked  at  him.  He  had  gone  out  before  breakfast  that 
very  first  morning,  to  try  the  mare  that  he  had  taken  the  un- 
accountable fancy  to.  Katharine  had  watched  from  a  window, 
with  her  heart  in  her  mouth — had  at  last,  at  risk  of  ridicule, 
gone  out  on  the  porch  and  called,  'Do  come  in.* 

'Why?' 

'I — I'm  hungry.' 

'Eat,  then.' 

'Oh,  send  that  vicious  beast  away!' 

'No,  I  won't,'  he  said,  and  for  a  good  hour  he  devoted  himself 
to  inducing  the  mare  to  take  a  different  view  of  her  whole  duty 
to  man.  He  came  in  hot  and  a  little  breathless,  but  quite  amiable. 
'She's  just  like  a  damned  woman,'  he  said  in  his  pleasant  way, 
as  he  watched  from  the  window  the  smoking-wet  creature  trem- 
bling, jerking  at  the  halter,  led  away  in  a  blanket.  'I've  bought 
her.' 

'Bought  her?    I  can't  see  what  you  did  that  for.' 

'You  will — if  you  stay  long  enough,'  he  showed  his  teeth  in 
that  sardonic  silent  laugh. 

After  breakfast  he  had  gone  over  to  look  at  the  new  stables 
— stables  with  wonderful  concrete  floors,  a  brand-new  system 
of  drainage,  ventilation,  and  sanitation — 'this  place  will  be  as 
clean  as  a  hospital  ward.'  But  something  had  not  been  done 
as  he  had  ordered.  Katharine  came  away  when  he  began  to 
berate  the  foreman.  She  didn't  see  him  again  till  luncheon. 
They  went  to  ride  after,  but  he  sent  Katharine  home  from  the 
mill. 

'You've  had  enough;  good-bye— that's  the  road.'  He  went 
on  alone  to  inspect  the  Hill  farm,  and  never  came  back  to  tea. 
Katharine  was  not  angry;  she  felt  herself  even  smiling  from  time 
to  time.  It  was  sufficiently  unlike  the  days  of  guilty  dalliance 
she  had  heard  and  read  of. 

18 


274  A  DARK  LANTERN 

He  came  in  at  seven,  splashed  and  muddy  from  neck  to  heel, 
having  been  in  the  saddle  five  hours. 

'By  God,  I'm  tired!'  He  stretched  himself  out  before  the 
fire,  and  his  boots  steamed.  'Been  raining  hard  these  two 
hours.' 

Katharine  laid  down  her  embroidery  and  looked  at  him.  '  Do 
you  never  take  cold  ? ' 

He  mumbled  something  as  he  poked  between  the  bars.  But 
he  went  upstairs  in  a  moment.  She  wondered  what  he  would 
put  on. 

As  for  herself,  she  dressed  as  if  she  had  been  going  to  a  Lon- 
don dinner-party,  with  the  exception  that,  had  she  been  in  town, 
she  would  have  worn  black.  When  she  came  down  an  hour 
later  she  stopped  an  instant  at  the  door,  with  a  sudden  fear 
at  her  heart,  fear  that  some  close  friend  of  hers,  or  of  the  Peter- 
boroughs,  had  got  upon  her  track  and  followed  her.  For  a 
man  in  evening  dress  stood  at  the  fire.  A  very  well-cut  back 
was  turned  upon  her.  The  shine  of  immaculate  linen  reflected 
from  the  glass.  She  had  recoiled  sharply,  about  to  run  away, 
when  the  figure  wheeled  round.  'Why,  it  is  you!'  She  came 
in  laughing.  'You — I  never  saw  you  in  evening  dress  before.' 

'Yes,  you  did.' 

'Oh,  you  mean  years  ago.  But  you  weren't  you,  then.'  She 
longed  to  tell  him  how  well  he  looked.  But  his  eyes  were  shin- 
ing curiously  as,  in  his  turn,  he  scanned  her.  She  was  glad 
she  had  put  a  bunch  of  Parma  violets  in  the  front  of  her  ivory 
satin  gown.  As  she  stood  that  instant  before  him,  twisting  her 
fingers  in  and  out  of  the  long  rope  of  pearls  that  she  knew  set 
off  her  fairness,  last  night's  feeling  of  almost  intolerable  excite- 
ment returned  upon  her.  She  avoided  his  eyes — looked  right, 
looked  left,  and  suddenly  with  outstretched  hand  indicated  cer- 
tain changes  she  had  made  in  the  furniture,  which  she  had  found 
arranged  in  a  painful  diagram,  stiff,  unhomelike.  'Don't  you 
like  it  better  so?' 

He  looked  about  the  room  as  if  he  had  not,  until  then,  taken 
note  of  any  change.  At  right  angles  to  the  fire  she  had  drawn 
a  sofa.  Between  it  and  the  end  of  the  hearth  was  now  a  little 
table  with  reading  lamp.  Opposite  was  the  huge  armchair 
with  footstool,  and  at  the  farther  side,  a  rather  bigger  table, 


A  DARK  LANTERN  275 

also  lamp-lit.  And  books  of  hers,  in  vellum  and  old  brocade, 
lay  about,  a  silk  work-bag,  and  various  feminine  odds  and  ends 
in  silver  and  enamel — things  that  she  was  used  to  having  by 
her  wherever  she  was.  And  the  whole  room  was  full  of  flowers. 

'You  do  like  it  a  little  better,  don't  you?'  she  asked.  As  his 
eyes  came  back  after  a  tour  of  the  room,  a  malicious  gleam  crossed 
the  dark  face. 

'You  look  as  if  you  meant  to  stay.' 

The  smile  died  from  off  her  lips.  Passionately  she  told  her- 
self: 'No  gentleman  would  have  said  that.'  She  moved  away, 
silent,  to  the  far  bowl  of  white  lilac,  and  buried  her  hot  face  in  it. 

'Where  did  you  get  your  flowers?' 

'From  the  Great  Matley  greenhouses.' 

'How  did  you  know  there  were  greenhouses  at  Great  Matley?' 

'I  asked.' 

'I  told  you  you'd  had  enough.' 

'  Enough  ? ' 

'I  expected  you  to  go  home.' 

'I  did  go  ...  home.' 

'Round  by  Matley?' 

'Oh  no,  I  sent.' 

With  a  great  effort,  as  they  sat  down  to  dinner,  she  began 
to  make  conversation,  her  long  training  in  keeping  up  appear- 
ances, coercing  her  to  'act'  a  little  before  the  servants. 

'I'm  told  some  of  the  things  didn't  get  down  from  London. 
I  suppose  it  isn't  easy  to  have  much  variety  here,'  she  pursued 
laboriously. 

'You  can  get  everything  you  need  here,  but  fish.' 

'Oh,  I  dare  say  one  needn't  starve.'  She  had  not  meant  to 
criticise  the  dinner — she  was  talking  against,  not  time,  but  silence, 
and  hardly  knew  what  words  she  flung  into  the  breach.  But 
Vincent  never  talked  except  to  say  something.  He  looked  at 
her  speculatively  as  he  broke  his  bread. 

'Are  you  fussy  about  your  food?'  he  demanded. 

'I  don't  think  so.' 

'I'm  satisfied  with  very  plain  things.' 

The  dinner  was  not  amiss,  but  it  was  impossible  for  her  to 
eat.  Last  night  she  could  have  gone — there  was  still  time;  to- 
night, ah,  it  was  very  different  to-night.  And  he  had  jeered 


276  A  DARK  LANTERN 

at  her:  'You  look  as  if '  Feeling  suddenly  that  she  should 

choke: 

'Is  there  some  wine?'  she  asked. 

'Why?' 

'I'll  have  some  if  there  is * 

The  servant  opened  the  cellaret — the  gilded  necks  of  cham- 
pagne bottles  looked  out  like  fine  plumaged  birds  from  a  crate. 

'No.     You  mustn't  have  wine,'  he  said. 

She  pretended  to  take  it  in  comedy  vein.  'Oh  yes,  I  must, 
just  to-night.  You  know  I'm  not  a  wine-bibber,  but  just  to- 
night.' 

'Why  just  to-night?' 

'Because  I — I'm  tired.' 

'That's  just  the  time  you  shouldn't  drink  wine.  And  you 
don't  look  tired.  You  look  very  well.' 

The  servant  had  gone  out.  She  tried  to  laugh — leaned  her 
head  on  her  hand,  and  before  she  knew  it,  the  tears  were  drop- 
ping on  the  cloth. 

'What!  Are  you  crying  because  I  don't  give  you  wine?'  He 
jumped  up.  She,  too,  laughing  and  saying,  'Don't  be  silly — 
I — I'm  just '  The  light  danced.  She  caught  at  the  side- 
board. He  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  brought  her  back  to 
her  chair — but  after  she  was  seated,  he  still  leaned  over  her  as 
if  to  speak,  looked  up  as  the  door  opened  to  admit  the  servant, 
and  then  went  quickly  back  to  his  place. 

'You're  very  long,'  he  said  sharply.  'What's  the  trouble 
with  you  people  out  there  ? ' 

While  the  man  excused,  apologized,  Vincent  began  again  to 
talk  to  Katharine.  'Of  course,  you  can  have  wine  if  you  want 
it,  but  you're  better  without.'  And  he  began  to  speak  of  Italian 
wine — thence  of  Italian  experiences  of  various  sorts;  and  pres- 
ently of  some  brigands  he  had  once  encountered  in  Morocco. 
He  told  the  story  rather  wel),  but  he  seemed  in  no  need  of  the 
usually  accepted  signs  of  interest  in  his  interlocutor.  Even  here, 
she  noticed  that  questions  seemed  to  interrupt  and  put  him  on 
his  guard. 

'When  was  that? 

'Oh,  some  years  ago' — and  he  was  off  again  telling  of  a  ruse 
by  which  the  leader  of  a  gang  was  afterwards  taken. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  277 

'What  attracted  you  to  Morocco?' 

'I  wasn't  attracted,  I  just  went.' 

But  it  was  a  good  story,  and  he  told  it  with  a  singular  uncon- 
scious effectiveness,  in  his  bald  telegraphic  style. 

Instead  of  following  her  back  to  the  drawing-room  he  went 
to  a  side-door  and  whistled.  The  dogs  came  bounding  into 
the  hall.  He  spoke  to  each  one,  calling  each  by  name.  When 
he  reappeared  in  the  drawing-room  surrounded  by  them,  and 
Katharine  saw  his  face  in  the  full  light,  she  was  astonished, 
touched  even,  by  its  kindness  and  good-humour.  But  the  dogs 
were  equally  astonished,  and  not  in  the  least  touched  to  gentler 
feelings  by  the  horrid  discovery  of  a  woman  by  the  fireside.  They 
bellowed  fearfully  at  the  apparition  in  white  satin,  while  Vin- 
cent, by  dint  of  damning  them  freely,  at  last  reduced  them  to 
a  grudging  endurance  of  the  intruder.  But  he  had  seen  Kath- 
arine's involuntary  shrinking  away.  'Do  you  mind  dogs?'  he 
demanded. 

'No,  oh  no,'  she  said,  thinking,  whatever  her  own  discom- 
fort, it  was  good  to  see  him  look  like  that.  She  moved  forward 
to  the  table.  The  bull  pup,  plainly  a  misogynist,  resenting  the 
liberty  she  took,  and  roused  to  renewed  detestation  of  the  petti- 
coat, flew  at  Katharine  with  murderous  intent.  Vincent  was 
upon  him  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  the  beast  had  time  only 
to  set  his  teeth  in  the  satin  gown,  before  he  was  half-choked  in 
those  fine  brown  hands,  that  Katharine  had  said  were  'like  a 
woman's.'  Turk,  gaping  furiously  for  air,  eyes  starting  out  of 
his  head,  half  throttled,  would  not  have  endorsed  her  opinion. 
He  was  dragged  out  into  the  hall,  and  there  received  correction. 
Katharine  put  her  hands  over  her  ears  at  first — but  still  she  could 
hear.  She  ran  to  the  door  and  stood  among  the  howling  dogs, 
praying  him  'not  to  do  it  any  more.'  Vincent,  still  with  his 
hand  on  the  collar  of  the  offending  member  of  his  family,  dragged 
him  back  to  the  drawing-room,  whither  Katharine  had  precip- 
itately retired,  so  as  not  to  rouse  the  angry  passions  of  the  Turk 
by  appearing  again  too  prominently  in  the  foreground.  She 
seized  her  work-bag  with  a  nervous  hand,  and  hunted  for  her 
needle.  But  Turk's  feelings  were  not  to  be  spared.  He  was 
dragged  straight  to  Katharine's  feet. 

'Are  you  afraid  of  him?'  demanded  Vincent,  frowning. 


278  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'No,'  said  Katharine,  not  even  knowing  that  she  lied. 

'That's  right,'  he  said.  'Now!'  fiercely  to  the  dog,  'you  be 
good  to  this  person.  Understand?'  He  bent  over  the  beast 
with  an  air  of  such  ferocity  that  the  woman's  sympathies  went 
suddenly  out  again  to  the  cowering  dog.  She  half  put  out  her 
hand  to  lay  it  on  Turk's  head — thought  better,  and  dropped 
it  at  her  side.  Vincent  patted  Katharine's  knee,  never  looking 
at  her,  eyes  fastened  on  the  dog,  as  he  repeated,  'Understand? 
This  is  a  friend.'  Katharine  glowed  under  the  adoption — more 
grateful,  prouder,  than  any  compliment  had  ever  made  her — 
yet  sharing  not  a  little  in  Turk's  nervous  demoralization.  For 
Vincent,  still  frowning  his  blackest,  went  on  talking  to  the  dog, 
alternately  bullying  and  roughly  caressing,  while  Katharine 
sat  back  in  the  chair  not  daring  to  speak  or  even  move,  divided 
between  'fear  of  the  two  ugly  brutes,'  as  she  said  to  herself,  sud- 
denly seeing  the  absurdity  of  the  situation. 

After  a  few  more  emotional  passages,  'poor  Turk,'  as  Kath- 
arine now  thought  of  her  enemy,  lay  down  near  the  door  in  black 
dejection,  and  Vincent  went  over  and  stood  among  the  good 
dogs,  back  to  the  fire,  hands  clasped  behind.  Glancing  side- 
ways, surreptitiously,  Katharine  took  in  the  immaculate  figure 
and  the  more  than  forbidding  face,  eyes  half-shut,  suffused  and 
reddened,  as  anger  always  left  them,  fixed  sullenly  on  the  van- 
quished dog.  Turk,  as  far  away  as  he  could  get,  crouching 
by  the  closed  door,  his  wicked  face  wickeder  than  ever,  the  loose 
leathery  mouth,  sourly  reflective,  drooping  in  evil  curves  upon 
his  paw,  one  lurid  eye  fixed  upon  his  master.  Katharine  swal- 
lowed a  hysterical  laugh  at  the  spectacle  of  Vincent  and  his  bull- 
dog glowering  at  one  another  from  a  distance  after  an  engage- 
ment. But  for  the  little  choked  noise  that  escaped  her  lips, 
no  sound  in  the  room  for  some  moments.  Quickly,  deftly,  she 
drew  in  and  out  her  embroidery  silk. 

Vincent  seemed  at  length  to  tire  of  glowering  at  Turk — to 
feel  the  oppression  of  silence  ensuing  upon  the  din.  He  looked 
round  suddenly  as  one  missing  something.  'I  must  get  a  piano 
down.'  Katharine,  still  feeling  rather  hysterical  with  suppressed 
laughter  (she  was  so  sure  the  music  just  silenced  had,  in  spite 
of  Vincent's  anger,  been  that,  after  all,  most  to  his  taste),  essayed 
Jo  answer  with  becoming  graciousness. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  279 

'Yes,  that  would  be  nice.'  The  words  had  no  sooner  left 
her  lips  than  she  remembered  that  speech  of  his.  'You  look 
as  if  you  meant  to  stay,'  and  her  mood  darkened.  The  sur- 
face comedy  was  broken  through,  showing  again  the  grimness 
of  the  situation  for  a  woman  such  as  she.  'You  play,  your- 
self?' she  asked. 

'No.' 

'Sing?' 

'No.' 

'Then  it  would  hardly  be  worth  while.' 

She  worked  feverishly  at  her  pattern,  holding  the  more  rigidly 
to  an  aspect  of  tranquillity,  since  she  could  not  coerce  her  heart 
as  he  had  done  the  dog.  If  she  could  only  whip  it  into  submis- 
sion! The  heavy-freighted  seconds  passed.  As  he  stood  there 
by  the  fire  she  had  the  illusion  of  seeing  him  with  unusual  vivid- 
ness, while  she  kept  her  eyes  on  her  work. 

At  last:  'Do  you  know  what  o'clock  it  is?'  he  said. 

'Yes.' 

'Well,  it's  country  bed- time.' 

'Good-night,'  she  said,  nodding  at  him,  and  going  on  with 
the  petal  of  her  flower. 

He  came  and  stood  in  front  of  her.  What  would  he  do  next? 
She  began  to  tremble  in  all  her  limbs,  tremble  so  that  she  could 
not  control  her  hand  to  make  the  stitches  even.  But  worked 
on  with  unraised  eyes.  What  would  he  do?  Was  he  getting 
out  of  patience — he  who  had  so  little?  Was  he  looking  at  her 
as  he  did  at  Turk?  She  could  have  laughed,  and  still  more 

easily  have  wept.  Was  it  possible  that  he Ah,  dear  Heaven! 

Was  he  gazing  down  with  such  a  look  as  she  had  dreamed  of, 
and  never  yet  had  seen  ? 

Lower  still  he  stooped.  What  was  it?  What  did  he  mean? 
Still  she  dared  not  raise  her  face,  and  yet  her  eyelids  fluttered 
— longing  to  lift  and  welcome  him. 

'I  wonder,'  he  began  at  last,  and  with  a  start  she  raised  her 
eyes.  He  was  not  looking  at  her  at  all — but  gravely  studying 
the  horned  petals  of  the  columbine.  'I  wonder  what  would 
happen  to  me  if  I  had  to  make  another  just  like  that,  or  be  hung. 
Or  rather  I  don't  wonder.  I  know.' 

'You'd  say  "I'll  be  hanged"  for  a  change.' 


28o  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'For  a  change?' 

'Yes.    Ordinarily,  you'd  say  "I'll  be  damned."' 

'Oh  no,  not  now,  I  wouldn't.' 

'Since  when  did  you  leave  off?' 

'Oh,  years  ago,'  he  said  quite  seriously.  'When  I  first  came 
back  from  the  wilds,  I  used  to  swear  like  a  trooper.' 

'Really.    And  you  never  do  that  now?' 

'It's  worn  off.  It  wouldn't  do  in  my  profession — used  to 
frighten  the  women  into  fits.' 

'I'm  glad  you  never  do  it  now,'  she  said,  giving  way  to  smiles. 

What  an  odd  creature  it  was !  Where  was  the  charm  of  him  ? 
She  couldn't  have  told  for  her  life.  She  only  knew  as  she  looked 
up  at  him,  that  there  was  no  other  man  in  the  world.  But  for 
fear  he  should  see  something  too  much  of  this,  she  bent  over 
her  embroidery  again. 

'Put  that  away.' 

'I  must  finish  this  bit.' 

He  attempted  to  take  the  work  out  of  her  hands. 

'Be  careful!  You'll  prick  me!  Ah  no,  it's  you!'  He  had 
dropped  the  embroidery.  'I'm  so  sorry.' 

He  rubbed  a  crimson  drop  off  his  hand  on  his  handkerchief. 
'And  now  my  columbine  is  blood-stained,'  she  said.  With  the 
unhurt  hand  he  again  laid  hold  of  the  work.  She  allowed  him 
to  have  it,  but  stood  up. 

'Let  me  fold  it  properly.' 

'You're  exactly  like  a  child  making  excuses  to  sit  up  late.' 


CHAPTER  VII 

MONDAY  morning. 

From  the  hall  where  Katharine  stood  to  see  Vincent  off,  she 
could  see  through  the  open  door,  the  square  of  wintry  landscape 
lit  palely  by  the  struggling  sunshine.  Moist  and^chill,  but  very 
sweet,  the  early  morning  air  invaded  the  warm  house.  The 
Turk  was  on  the  threshold,  looking  dourly  from  his  master  to 
the  objectionable  woman.  Was  it  only  the  Turk's  morning 
mood,  or  was  he  really  so  much  uglier  by  broad  day?  As  he 
watched  the  preparations  for  his  master's  departure  he  seemed 
to  suggest  with  an  extra  gleam  of  malice  in  his  wicked  eye,  an 
extra  festoon  in  the  loose  black  leather  of  his  mouth:  'Take  the 
strange  woman  back  to  town  and  lose  her.'  The  other  dogs 
were  skirmishing  about  the  groom,  whose  head  appeared  at  the 
left  of  the  steps  as  he  stood  holding  the  horse. 

'So  you're  not  coming  to  the  station?' 

'I  don't  believe  I  will.' 

As  Vincent  pulled  on  his  driving  gloves  she  thought  he  looked 
a  trace  less  pleased  with  life.  'Good-bye,'  then.  Without  so 
much  as  shaking  hands  he  turned  on  his  heel,  looked  back  at 
her  from  the  door,  and,  with  that  sardonic  grin  of  his,  inquired 
brusquely:  'Shall  I  find  you  here  when  I  get  back?' 

She  swallowed  before  she  could  bring  out  words — and  he  went 
on:  'You'll  get  tired  of  it,  down  here,'  a  little  angrily  as  if  to 
announce:  Don't  suppose  you  can  surprise  me  by  making  off  in 
my  absence. 

'Tired?'  she  had  echoed,  leaning  against  the  hall  table. 

'Bound  to,'  he  jerked  out.    'Whirligig  existence  you've  led!' 

'I  should  get  tired  if — if  you  stayed  away  too  long.' 

'Got  to  stay  away  till  Friday.' 

281 


282  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Yes,  I  know  that.' 

He  looked  down  at  the  catch  in  his  glove.  Five  days  before 
she  would  see  him.  Should  she  write  to  him?  Would  he,  after 
all,  expect  that — even  like  it? 

'Shall  you  write  to  me?'  she  said. 

'Write?'  in  the  tone  of  one  saying  throttle,  or  cut  off  an  ear. 
Then  suspiciously,  'What  about?' 

'Oh — a — just  to  let  me  know  .  .  .  you're  alive.' 

'I  expect  somebody 'd  mention  it  if  I  was  dead.' 

She  left  the  table  and  came  nearer  to  him.  '  What  do  you  want 
me  to  do  while  you're  gone?' 

'/  don't  care  what  you  do.'  But  the  odd  thing  was  that  de- 
spite its  roughness,  the  speech  had  strangely  the  effect  of  installing 
her  here,  of  leaving  her  in  formal  possession.  A  Spaniard  would 
have  said  with  a  bow  and  a  roll  of  the  eyeball:  'My  house  and 
my  gardens,  my  servants,  my  horses,  they  are  yours,  most  beautiful 
lady.'  Vincent's  version  of  that  was:  '/  don't  care  what  you  do,' 
for  he  added — '  Don't  break  your  neck.  Pete's  your  beast.  Ride 
every  day — and  be  out  all  you  can.  This  is  the  place  for  you  if 
— you  can  stand  it.  Good-bye.' 

•*  *  *  *  * 

He  telegraphed  Friday  morning.  Katharine  thrilled  to  think 
of  his  writing  'Vincent'  on  a  message  to  her.  He  was  coming 
by  the  early  train.  She  would  go  and  meet  him.  All  the  day, 
whether  she  rode  or  walked,  wrote  or  idled  by  the  fire,  she  was 
meeting  him  in  imagination  at  the  train — ridiculously,  childishly 
happy,  as  she  said  to  herself;  yes,  and  excited,  too.  He  was 
coming,  coming  home.  The  time  of  his  absence  had  been  in 
one  way  long,  and  yet  the  days  had  never  lagged.  The  world 
here  seemed  to  be  full  of  things  to  do — or  rather  to  think  about. 
Making  the  most  of  being  still  a  semi-invalid,  Katharine  on  the 
day  after  her  arrival  had  told  the  housekeeper  that  everything 
should  go  on  as  before.  And  deep  relief  fell  upon  the  domestics 
of  High  Winston.  Katharine  was  out  of  doors  the  greater  part 
of  every  day,  as  Vincent  had  prescribed,  in  rain  or  shine,  riding, 
walking,  building  castles  by  daylight  and  by  dark ;  at  night  sending 
herself  to  sleep  with  stories;  deliberately,  as  only  the  imaginative 
may,  shutting  out  that  disturber  of  inward  peace  'Reality,'  behind 
the  barred  and  padded  doors  that  open  upon  dreams. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  283 

She  went  about  this  house  of  his  in  a  secret  rapture.  All  these 
things — everything  she  touched  and  looked  upon  was  his.  Not 
mere  chairs  and  tables,  not  mere  guns  and  sticks,  whips,  pipes, 
old  hats,  as  they  might  look  to  the  casual  eye,  but  things  glorified 
by  his  possession  of  them.  His  personality  was  stamped  upon 
them  all,  giving  to  the  meanest,  value  and  significance,  like  the 
plain  letter  'N'  that  so  overshadows  the  mere  crown  on  some 
trifle  that  was  Buonaparte's. 

Not  that  alone.     Himself  was  everywhere. 

As  she  looked  across  the  drawing-room  that  first  evening  she 
spent  alone  here,  she  had  a  vision  of  him  flung  upon  the  sofa,  his 
black  head  buried  in  the  red  cushion.  The  sense  of  his  being 
there  was  so  strong  upon  her,  that  she  got  up  and  went  over  to 
the  sofa,  smiling  and  looking  down  into  his  face.  Before  she 
knew  what  she  was  doing,  she  was  on  her  knees  bending  over  the 
cushion.  And  she  kissed  the  silk. 

A  piano  came  down  on  Wednesday.  But  she  had  not  been 
without  music,  yet  had  no  feeling  that  it  was  she  who  made  it. 
He  did  that  with  his  name. 

'  Garth ! '  She  said  it  in  her  heart  with  a  sense  of  its  surpassing 
sweetness,  as  any  schoolgirl  might.  She  longed  to  say  it  aloud. 
They  had  never  yet  called  each  other  by  their  Christian  names 
— and  it  was  a  pity,  since,  'Garth!  Garth!'  was  so  beautiful  to 
say.  She  took  to  whispering  it  when  she  felt  it  was  safe  to  do  so, 
out  in  the  sunlit  open,  by  day — in  the  dark  of  the  night  as  she 
lay  in  bed.  '  Garth !  Garth ! ' 

She  remembered  the  talks  at  Ventnor  about  poetry,  and  as 
she  read  new  verses  aloud  in  the  seclusion  of  her  room,  or  the 
equal  solitude  of  the  wood,  wondered  what  Mary  would  say  to 
them.  For  the  Duchess  of  Worcester  had  been  a  memorably 
good  audience  in  those  Isle  of  Wight  days,  that  seemed  to  lie  so 
far  behind.  A  discreet  woman,  too — with  a  full  life  of  her  own, 
and  no  inconvenient  taste  for  research  into  another's.  It  was  of 
course  possible  to  use  the  Ventnor  address,  but  Katharine  planned 
how  she  would  take  the  north-bound  train  from  Matley  to  Par- 
minton,  and  post  from  there  to  Worcester  House — giving  her 
friend  the  publisher's  address,  and  instructions  for  sending  on. 

Yet,  after  all,  what  waste  of  words  to  string  rhymes  and  make 
songs !  What  could  even  a  great  poet  say  so  eloquent  as  '  Garth '  ? 


384  A  DARK  LANTERN 

And  then  she  laughed  at  herself,  and  then  whispered  'Garth!' 
again,  with  a  sense  of  quick  delight — quite  new,  as  if  she  had 
never  tried  the  spell  before. 

The  sound  of  Vincent's  dog-cart  crunching  gravel  had  hardly 
died  that  Monday  morning,  when  Katharine  set  herself  to  the 
task  of  making  friends  with  the  Turk.  Jackson  had  appeared, 
as  Vincent,  reins  in  hand,  was  in  the  act  of  wrapping  the  rug 
round  his  legs.  The  man  snapped  a  chain  on  Turk's  collar,  and 
was  taking  him  off  when  Katharine  came  out  on  the  porch. 
Vincent  had  looked  up,  lifted  his  hat,  and  then  driven  off. 

'Where  are  you  going  with  the  dog?' 

'I  have  orders  to  keep  him  on  the  chain — for  this  week.' 

'Why  is  that?' 

'I  think  it's  on  account  of  you,  ma'am.'  She  walked  beside 
the  two  down  to  the  kennels,  and  stayed  there  an  hour  or  more. 

The  other  dogs  were  already  decently  disposed — and,  poor 
things,  were  neglected  for  their  virtues'  sake.  But  Turk!  In 
pursuance  of  a  plan,  Katharine  returned  to  the  kennels  after 
luncheon.  The  object  of  her  interest  received  her  with  horrid 
manifestations.  She  was  heartily  glad  he  was  on  the  chain. 
Nevertheless,  in  half  an  hour  or  so  when  he  was  calmer  she  got 
Jackson  to  give  the  Turk  his  liberty — and  she  leaned  a  good  deal 
on  Jackson,  in  spirit,  during  the  moments  that  immediately 
followed.  She  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon  down 
there. 

The  next  morning  she  released  the  Turk  herself,  but  in  the 
presence  of  Jackson,  who  saw  with  manifest  astonishment  and 
some  misgiving  his  master's  orders  contravened. 

Every  day,  twenty  times  in  every  day,  Katharine  would  despair 
of  making  the  conquest  she  had  set  her  heart  upon.  The  process 
of  making  friends  with  the  Turk  was  like  learning  a  new  language. 
You  toil  and  toil,  and  seem  to  be  exactly  where  you  were  at  the 
beginning.  You  do  advance,  but  you  cannot  believe  it.  Nothing 
seems  a  whit  less  hard  than  it  did  at  first.  You  despair;  but  if 
you  keep  at  it,  however  self-contemptuously,  one  day  you  find, 
all  of  a  sudden,  that  you  have  accomplished  more  than  you  had 
dreamed.  You  are  getting  hold  of  the  thing  after  all.  It  was 
just  so  in  the  conquest  of  the  Terrible  Turk.  He  would  infinitely 
prefer  starving  to  death  apparently,  rather  than  eat  anything 


A  DARK  LANTERN  285 

Katharine  gave  him.  At  least,  while  she  was  there,  he  wouldn't 
so  much  as  look  at  it.  Very  well,  she  would  go  away.  When 
she  came  back  the  plate  was  clean,  but  the  Turk  ready  to  glare 
at  her  with  added  fury,  quick  to  growl  the  menace:  'Don't  pre- 
sume to  think  it  was  I  ate  your  offering.  Never!  'sdeath!  Gad- 
zooks!  I  despise  your  chicken! — but  I'd  eat  you  as  soon  as  wink.' 

Since  he  scorned  to  squire  her  in  her  walks  (you'd  as  soon 
expect  the  King  to  go  shopping  with  you)  she  would  send  for 
him  the  moment  she  came  indoors  and  keep  him  in  the  room 
with  her,  till  bed-time. 

It  was  hard,  after  all  the  trouble  she  took,  to  hear  him  begin 
to  rumble  like  a  four-legged  volcano  when  she  reappeared  the 
next  morning.  But  Katharine  was  hugely  elated  at  his  con- 
senting to  snap  a  wish-bone  out  of  her  hand,  on  Thursday  even- 
ing, after  he  had  been  sedulously  starved  all  day.  That  was  the 
moment  when  she  said  to  herself,  'Hurrah!  I  am  getting  hold  of 
this  new  language  after  all.'  The  next  morning  the  internal 
rumbling  was  a  half-hearted  sort  of  performance,  as  of  one  whose 
mind  wasn't  on  his  work. 

After  the  telegram  came,  on  Friday,  Katharine,  in  an  access  of 
joy  and  excitement,  ventured  gingerly  to  pat  him.  He  stood  it. 
Ah!  ha!  she  would  do  that  before  Garth.  She  wouldn't  tell  him 
how  much  trouble  she'd  taken,  but  she  would  flaunt  the  result. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  her  excitement  grew.  How  would 
Garth  look  when  he  caught  sight  of  her?  Would  he  like  it  that 
she  should  go  to  meet  him  ?  Would  he  be  a  little  pleased  that  she 
couldn't  wait?  .  .  .  Would  the  man  who  sold  him  the  mare 
perhaps  be  in  the  train  ?  Would  he  come  on  to  Vincent's  station, 
that  he  might  talk  'horse'  a  little  longer? 

As  the  time  drew  near  for  the  dog-cart  to  appear,  her  sense  of 
gladness  waned  until  it  yielded  to  eclipse. 

Will  he  stare,  when  he  sees  me  there,  instead  of  Jackson? 
Will  he  laugh,  in  that  malicious  way  of  his,  to  see  me  so  im- 
patient for  his  coming?  Or  will  he  throw  a  sulky,  half -noticing 
look  that  will  say:  'Oh,  you're  still  here,  are  you?'  and  then  talk 
to  the  dogs.  After  all,  why  should  she  go?  There  might  be 
someone  in  the  train  or  even  on  the  platform  — someone  who 
would  recognise  her. 

If  she  could  have  felt  sure  that  he  would  like  her  to  come  she 


286  A  DARK  LANTERN 

would  have  risked  that — but  how  could  she  tell?  No,  she  was 
too  nervous.  She  would  stay  at  home.  And  she  would  keep 
Turk.  Yes.  She  rang  and  explained  that  it  was  too  cold  for 
driving,  and  Jackson  was  to  go  alone.  Then  she  went  upstairs 
and  changed  her  gown.  Came  down  rather  sadly — talked  to 
Turk  and  stared  at  the  clock  face. 

He  came  in  with  the  Bedlington,  and  two  collies,  and  the  new 
terrier  jumping  round  him.  Turk  went  majestically  to  offer 
greeting. 

'Hello!'  whether  to  her  or  Turk  it  would  be  hard  to  tell.  But 
she  stood  up  smiling  and  intending  to  say:  'How  do  you  do?' 
The  words  that  came  were:  'Oh,  I'm  glad  you're  back.' 

'Bored,  eh?'  He  flung  himself  down  in  the  sofa  corner,  and 
let  his  hand  fall  till  he  could  reach  and  pull  the  brown  collie's 
ears,  Awhile  Turk  growled  under  his  breath  at  these  tactless 
attentions  to  an  inferior. 

'No,  I  haven't  been  bored,'  she  said. 

'What  makes  you  glad  to  see  me  back,  then?' 

A  sudden  great  longing  to  make  him  understand,  took  her 
off  her  feet — swept  her  forward  with  outstretched  hands,  eyes 
full  of  shining,  and  a  flitting  scarlet  in  her  cheeks.  He  watched 
her  with  an  air  of  quiet  curiosity,  and  when  halfway  to  his  sofa 
she  stopped  abruptly,  he  grinned.  For  Turk  had  crossed  her 
path,  trailing  a  long  solemn  growl.  If  she  had  had  herself  better 
in  hand,  she  would  not,  at  that  critical  moment,  have  lost  her 
new-found  authority  with  the  dog.  But  breathless,  unmindful, 
overwrought,  she  started  back  and  uttered  a  little  cry.  And  so 
undid  the  work  of  five  painstaking  days.  She  saw  at  once  that, 
upon  her  betrayal  of  fear,  Turk  had  cast  off  all  allegiance.  But 
she  was  too  entirely  under  the  dominion  of  her  new  impulse  to 
think  about  that  or  to  care.  Cautiously  she  coasted  round  the 
dragon  in  her  path,  till  she  had  nearly  gained  the  sofa.  A  sudden 
vicious  rumbling  brought  her  again  to  a  standstill. 

'Come  on,'  said  Vincent,  still  with  his  grin.  'If  you  haven't 
been  bored,  what  makes  you  glad  to  see  me?' 

'  I'd  come  and  tell  you  if  .  .  .'  She  looked  down,  half -amused, 
half  angry,  on  her  enemy. 

'Afraid,  are  you?'  He  turned  approvingly  to  Turk.  'You 
keep  her  in  order,  do  you,  while  I'm  away,'  and  he  went  on  con- 


A  DARK  LANTERN  287 

versing  with  the  Turk,  while  Katharine  stood,  not  daring  to 
advance. 

When  he  had  got  his  full  measure  of  enjoyment  out  of  that: 
'What  do  you  stand  there  for?  Why  don't  you  sit  down?'  he 
said  suddenly.  He  did  not  add,  'here  by  me,'  but  it  was  to  the 
sofa  that  she  moved.  Turk  stood  up  and  rumbled  worse  than 
ever.  Again  she  stopped,  half  laughing,  half  annoyed.  Vin- 
cent's pleasure  in  the  performance  was  unblushing.  'Don't  like 
her,  eh?  Why  not?  What's  she  been  doing  you  don't  like? 
Don't  want  her  here,  eh  ? '  Suddenly  he  leaned  forward,  put  out 
his  hand  and  took  hers.  But  he  had  the  air  of  doing  it  solely  to 
enrage  the  dog.  Katharine  clung  to  the  hand,  saying  in  low, 
persuasive  tones:  'Oh,  send  them  away.' 

But  he  only  laughed,  through  Turk's  renewed  manifestations 
of  dislike  and  jealousy. 

'Hate  one  another,  eh?'  the  master  said  with  satisfaction. 

'Not  at  all,'  protested  Katharine,  but  still  watching  Turk 
uneasily  and  holding  tight  to  Vincent's  hand.  'You  don't 
bring  out  the  best  of  bull-dog  nature.  It's  only  since  you've 
come  back  that  he  behaves  like  this.  We've  made  friends.' 

'Oh,  you  have,  have  you?'    He  looked  at  her  sideways. 

'Yes.  Turk  is  only  pretending.  He  comes  to  me  for  his 
dinner  now.' 

'What?' 

'And  he  took  a  walk  with  me  this  morning.' 

'Oh,  look  here!'  he  laughed  out  his  unbelief. 

'But  it's  quite  true.  It's  only  since  you  came  in  that  he  has 
fallen  from  grace.  I  think  you  two  react  most  evilly  on  each 
other.  Either  of  you  alone  is ' 

'Turk!  She  is  trying  to  sow  dissension  in  our  family.  Turk! 
Is  it  true  you  like  her — like  this  stranger?'  .  .  .  He  bent  to 
Katharine,  disengaging  himself  from  her  clinging  hold,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  while  out  of  the  corners  of  his 
eyes  he  glanced  down  at  the  jealous  Turk — 'Made  friends  with 
her,  have  you?'  Disavowal  of  the  imputed  alliance  was  instant, 
unmistakable.  Vincent  lifted  two  fingers  and  passed  them  down 
Katharine's  cheek.  The  sound  of  subterranean  wrath  was  mount- 
ing to  higher  levels  as  with  an  air  of  deliberate  malice  repeating: 
'Really  do  like  this  stranger,  do  you?' — ostentatiously  he  put 


288  A  DARK  LANTERN 

his  arm  round  her,  and  drew  her  close  against  him.  Katharine 
shut  her  eyes  dizzily,  hardly  knowing  that  Turk  had  backed  off 
with  a  very  ugly  sound,  till  she  felt  Vincent's  hold  suddenly 
leave  her.  He  had  sprung  up,  and  as  she  opened  her  eyes  she 
had  a  vision  of  the  great  bull-dog  in  the  air  coming  down  upon 
her,  and  Vincent  meeting  him,  catching  him  by  his  gaping  jaw, 
in  a  fashion  that  looked  horribly  dangerous.  She  gave  a  sudden 
cry  and  flung  forward  on  a  perfectly  blind  instinct  to  help.  'Sit 
down!'  shouted  Vincent,  at  the  same  time  giving  the  dog  a  kick 
that  sent  him  howling  out  of  the  room,  with  all  the  others  slink- 
ing after.  'Don't  you  ever  try  to  interfere  in  any  dog  trouble!' 

Katharine  had  sat  down  shaking  with  excitement  and  with 
both  hands  held  tight  over  her  heart.  'All  right!'  she  said, 
breathless. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  then  scowled  at  the  door,  through  which 
the  dogs  had  vanished.  Then  coming  nearer  to  an  apology 
than  Garth  Vincent  had  ever  been  in  his  life,  he  muttered:  'It 
wasn't  altogether  Turk's  fault  this  time.  But  if  he  ever  flies 
at  you  again  .  .  .  I'll  kill  the  brute.' 

She  said  nothing.  He  came  nearer  and  asked  brusquely, 
'Pain  come  back?'  She  only  smiled  faintly,  still  holding  her 
hands  tight  over  her  heart.  He  bent  down,  took  her  hands 
away,  and  thrust  his  own  into  her  bodice,  saying  professionally: 

'Going  like  a  trip-hammer,  eh?' 

And  she,  making  no  resistance,  dropped  her  head  against  his 
arm.  All  she  had  meant  to  say  when  Turk  had  stopped  her, 
summed  up  in  a  single  syllable: 

1  Garth: 

And  he:  'Oh,  you've  discovered  I've  got  a  front  name,  have 
you?' 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Six  weeks  had  gone — and  again  she  was  counting  the  hours 
as  she  did  at  each  week's  end — the  hours  and  then  the  minutes 
till  he  should  come. 

Although  it  was  winter  still,  the  sensitive  human  spirit,  roam- 
ing field  and  wood,  could  feel  the  first  faint  stirrings  of  the  spring, 
and  searched  the  frosty  weald  for  sign  of  confirmation.  No 
clear  answer  from  the  meadow,  no  definite  sign  from  the  wood, 
for  all  through  the  winter,  primroses  had  lit  their  pale  lamps 
here  and  there,  and  set  them  to  glimmer  in  the  shelter  of  hedges, 
or  to  light  the  secret  places  of  the  wood. 

It  was  the  moment  when  the  coming  miracle  seems  most 
incredible  and  is  yet  most  desired — the  moment  upon  February's 
threshold  when  one  says  to  one's  self  almost  with  misgiving: 
other  miracles  may  not  happen,  this  particular  one  will  never 
fail.  And  yet  there  is  no  faintest  sign  that  winter's  sleep  and 
silence  will  not  endure  forever,  no  least  assurance  to  the  ear  or 
eye,  that  out  of  this  grave  of  all  the  years  will  rise  the  flower- 
eyed  Spring  in  her  mantle  of  sun-flecked  green. 

There  where  a  tiny  canal  stretches  its  grey  ribbon  for  boundary 
between  Garth  Vincent's  fields,  over  there  two  starlings  splash 
and  flick  the  water.  In  the  willows  along  the  brink  a  dozen 
more — they  know. 

Spring!  what  would  it  bring  to  her?  What  was  to  be  her 
awakening?  For  she  too,  in  a  fashion,  had  slept,  had  been 
quiescent  as  the  bare  brown  fields,  not  looking  before  or  after; 
lulled;  yes,  yes,  she  had  slept,  and  must  awake. 

Standing  under  the  leafless  willows  she  drew  her  hands  across 
her  eyes  and  with  finger-tips  still  resting  on  her  temples,  looked 
across  the  stubble  to  the  many-gabled  house.  It  would  be  there 

289  19 


290 


A  DARK  LANTERN 


that  Fate  would  find  her — there  that  she  would  wake  out  of 
this  long  slumber  to  her  greatest  joy  or  sorrow. 

What  was  he  thinking?  Had  he  a  definite  plan? — or  had 
he  too  been  sleeping?  Certainly  he  gave  no  sign. 

She  was  even  more  conscious  than  before,  that  what  to  the 
superficial  eye  was  rough,  boorish  in  him,  wore  to  her  a  kind 
of  dignity,  conveyed  a  flattery  even,  that  silken  speech  had  failed 
of.  In  his  bareness  of  approach  there  was  still  this  something 
that  seemed  to  lift  her  up.  Instead  of  feeling  any  loss  in  her 
lover,  she  was  conscious  mainly  of  a  strange  high  discipline  that 
wore  the  air  to  her  of  moral  gain — ironic  as  the  epithet  would 
sound  in  many  a  good  man's  ear. 

But  the  end — what  was  to  be  the  end?  However  much  he 
might  in  his  unwilling  heart  have  come  to  care  for  her,  she  could 
not  flatter  herself  that  she  was  necessary  to  him.  Not  even  that 
she  had  won  his  confidence. 

That  hurt  to  his  faith  in  woman,  however  it  had  come  about, 
was  so  deep  it  seemed  past  healing.  Nothing  so  disheartened 
her  as  to  find  that  after  all  the  proofs  that  she  had  given,  he  did 
not  really  trust  her.  His  first  instinct  was  still  and  always, 
suspicion;  self-defence  against  man's  enemy,  woman. 

And  yet.  .  .  .  She  dropped  her  hands  and  walked  across 
the  stubble  towards  the  mill.  And  yet  .  .  . 

In  the  bend  of  the  quiet  reach  above  the  race,  a  wild  duck 
was  lurking.  Jackson  had  said  'next  month,  bar  black  frost, 
his  nest  will  be  there.' 

Spring. 

' and  Garth?'  .  .  .  she  said  to  herself,  standing  still  that 

she  might  not  scare  away  the  wild  duck — very  much  as  she  had 
learned  to  stand  quiet,  gentle,  unshaken,  before  the  untamed 
forces  in  the  nature  of  the  man  she  loved. 

His  defects  of  temper  and  of  taste,  his  deliberate  harshness 
that  seemed  a  savage  need  to  make  others  share  in  his  disgust 
of  life;  his  ineradicable  distrust  of  his  kind — no  'attitude'  but 
the  heavy  end  of  his  life's  burden  as  Katharine  saw  it — none  of 
these  things  were  absent  from  her  unshrinking  vision  of  the  man 
as  she  had  come  to  know  him  here  at  High  Winston. 

She  had  not  ceased  to  wonder  at  his  power  of  'dividing  his 
life  into  air-tight  compartments,'  as  she  expressed  it  to  herself. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  291 

Nothing  of  one  experience  spilled  over  into  another,  no  mood 
overlapped  on  to  the  next.  No  admission  in  the  Present  of  the 
Past.  No  hint  this  morning  of  last  night.  An  air  so  '  oblivious ' 
that  an  invincible  shyness  must  fall  upon  the  one  who  so  much 
as  dreamed  of  reminding  him  of  hour  or  incident  which  he  seemed 
to  wipe  so  clean  out  of  existence,  that  its  ever  having  been 
became  a  matter  requiring  evidence. 

It  was  as  if  he  lay  under  some  necessity  to  say  without  the 
clumsy  aid  of  words:  'Being  human,  I  have  my  times  of  weak- 
ness. These  are  woman's  opportunity.  But  do  you  imagine 
you  have  got  hold  of  me — come  one  whit  nearer  ? '  If  so,  his  the 
task  to  undeceive  her. 

In  his  den  behind  the  empty  conservatory,  where  even  the 
dogs  were  unwelcome,  Garth  Vincent,  smoking,  reading  agri- 
cultural and  'horsey'  papers,  medical  pamphlets,  reports  of 
scientific  societies,  disquisitions  in  French  and  German  on  disease 
— deaf  to  any  sound,  blind  to  any  sight  beyond  words  printed  on 
a  page — a  creature  dead  to  all  outward  manifestations,  yet  con- 
cerned intensely  with  things  silent  and  unseen — that  was  one 
person.  Another,  the  man  who  rode  his  horses  to  a  foam,  or 
tramped  the  countryside,  in  fair  weather  or  in  foul,  all  eyes  and 
ears,  not  for  the  poetry,  the  spirit,  but  the  externality  of  country 
life. 

While  he  ate  and  drank,  listened  to  the  singing,  chaffed  the 
dogs,  or  made  Katharine  talk,  rather  than  talk  himself — that 
was  yet  another  man,  simple,  often  boyish,  as  by  hazard,  kind. 
If  even  here  reserved,  it  was  with  a  reserve  like  the  schoolboy's, 
that  seems  less  a  barrier  to  check  advance,  than  a  shield  for 
shyness. 

None  of  these,  precisely  like  that  Garth  Vincent  of  the  more 
revealing  moods,  and  quick  repentance  of  them.  Against  this 
last  man  he  bore  an  open  grudge — at  first  angry,  then  sullen; 
but  less  and  less  of  either,  Katharine  thought,  as  time  went  on. 
And  yet  never  wholly  forgiven,  never  reconciled.  Would  he 
ever  be  ? 

Even  in  quite  early  days  Katharine  guessed  the  significance 
to  her  of  the  answer  to  that  question.  'You  are  like  the  new 
terrier,'  she  said  once,  speaking  of  a  lost  and  starving  dog 
that  had  followed  Garth  home  from  Matley  one  Sunday  and 


292  A  DARK  LANTERN 

declined  thereafter  to  leave.  Vincent,  while  professing  to  de- 
test the  cur,  allowed  him  to  stay  on.  'Yes,  very  like  the  new 
terrier.' 

'I  suppose  you  mean  because  I've  got  a  vile  temper,'  he  said. 

'You  are  maligning — the  terrier.' 

He  accepted  that. 

'Have  you  been  told  you  have  "a  vile  temper  " '? 

'Yes,'  he  answered  promptly. 

'  Who  says  so  ? ' 

'Everybody  that's  ever  had  the  privilege  of  knowing  me.' 

'Well,  that  isn't  why  you're  like  the  terrier.  It's  because 
you've  both  of  you  had  a  bad  time  and  can't  get  the  recollection 
of  it  out  of  your  head. ' 

He  put  on  that  impenetrable  black  mask  of  his. 

But  Katharine  continued:  'When  I  come  suddenly  on  Stray, 
he  doesn't  see  me,  he  sees  an  imaginary  woman  with  a  sharp 
weapon.  Now  do  you  understand?' 

He  made  no  answer. 

'Yet  Stray  knows  this  particular  woman;  knows  if  I  stoop 
to  pat  him,  there's  no  need  to  expect  a  blow.  But  I  might  as 
well  go  about  with  a  club.  He's  always  shying  at  it.' 

'And  you  think  I'm  like  that?' 

'Did  nobody  else  ever  tell  you?' 

'A  woman  told  me  the  other  day — clever  woman,  too— that  I 
was  a  born  cynic.'  He  looked  distinctly  pleased. 

'Oh,'  said  Katharine,  'a  cynic  is  only  a  sentimentalist  whose 
feelings  have  been  dreadfully  hurt.' 

*  *  *  *  * 

Yet  she  had  no  desire  to  cover  with  fair  words  any  fact  in 
the  problem  he  presented  to  her.  The  woman  who  had  been 
called  romantic,  poetic,  before  whom  men  had  systematically 
veiled,  denied,  the  less  admirable  aspects  of  human  nature — 
this  same  woman  learned  how  little  perfection  has  to  do  with 
the  winning  or  the  holding  of  devotion. 

Just  as  in  another  sort  of  strait,  she  would  have  scorned  to 
'make  a  show,'  to  pretend  to  be  better  off  than  she  was,  so  here, 
a  kind  of  pride  prevented  her  from  consciously  painting  Garth 
Vincent  as  better  than  life  revealed  him.  Her  reward  was  an 
intenser  yearning  towards  the  untamed  and  unbelieving  spirit, 


A  DARK  LANTERN  293 

a  compensation  in  hugging  closer  such  marred  excellence  as  their 
hours  together  had  betrayed. 

He  had  so  much,  this  man,  she  could  say  to  herself.  I  haven't 
imagined  it;  it  is  all  there.  Kindness,  deep,  unfaltering,  yet 
shrinking  almost  with  anger  from  the  name.  She  suspected 
him  of  capacity  for  heroism.  Knew  him  convicted  of  truth  that 
would  not  flinch.  And  under  his  hardness,  natural  and  acquired, 
a  sensitiveness  like  a  woman's. 

Such  a  man  must  have  a  soul.  Oh,  to  wake  it! — to  wake 
it!  Not  only  to  make  him  care.  To  make  him  willing  to  show 
he  cared.  Not  in  gusts  of  passion,  but  with  the  steadfast  ten- 
derness that  is  ready  to  show  itself  unabashed — that  fails  not  any 
hour. 

Sometimes  she  would  look  back  to  those  first  days  when  she 
lay  in  her  old  room  at  Peterborough  House — not  a  few  months 
since,  but  surely  many  years  ago,  since  she  lay  there  drawing 
herself  back  from  dreams,  with  the  saying:  'I  couldn't  marry 
him. '  By-and-by : '  How  odd  if  I  should,  though. '  Then : '  There 
isn't  another  real  man  in  the  world.  Oh,  if  he  would  love  me.' 

The  terms  upon  which  she  might  get  that  love,  the  terms  had 
long  and  long  enough,  been  of  secondary  import. 

Oh  yes,  she  had  travelled  far.  And  yet  had  no  prevision  of 
the  end. 

***** 

Full,  when  he  came  this  time,  of  his  farm  improvements — 
of  ditching,  planting,  and  getting  ready  for  the  Spring. 

On  horseback  or  on  foot,  Katharine  was  with  him  everywhere, 
listening  to  his  talk  with  the  men,  showing  him  this  and  that, 
delighted  to  share  the  lore  she  had  gathered  through  the  week. 
No  whit  less  than  he  or  his  men,  she  felt  the  sense  of  this  some- 
thing coming,  that  must  be  prepared  for.  It  is  time  to  do  this; 
the  time  is  nearly  gone  when  it's  any  use  to  do  that;  time  lost 
now,  can  never  be  made  up.  She  felt  the  stir  and  thrill  of  these 
rural  commonplaces,  longed  herself  to  have  a  hand  in  this  great 
making-ready;  had  many  a  conflict  to  withstand  temptation 
secretly  to  set  bulbs  in  the  brown  earth,  and  bury  surreptitious 
seeds,  that  like  good  deeds  should  show  fair  faces,  bearing  their 
gentle  witness,  when  she  had  quite  forgot  where  it  was  she  hid 
them,  or  even  that  they  were  at  all. 


294  A  DARK  LANTERN 

But  she  shrank  and  held  her  hand,  at  memory  of  Vincent's 
saying  on  that  first  evening  here,  when  she  had  set  about  his 
rooms  only  perishable  flowers,  things  like  herself  not  standing 
firmly  in  this  soil  of  his,  but  rootless — and  yet  he  had  looked 
suspiciously  on  them  and  her,  and  said  those  words  that  stung 
her  still:  'You  look  as  if  you  meant  to  stay.'  But  on  this  happy 
morning,  when  every  field  and  almost  every  furrow  was  sum- 
moned to  the  great  conspiracy  of  Spring — called  on  to  conceive 
and  to  bring  forth — Katharine  found  herself  saying  to  Vincent 
as  they  crossed,  again,  the  lower  garden:  'All  along  here,  from 
the  porch  to  the  far  gate,  you  ought  to  have  flower  borders.' 

'That's  a  woman's  business.  Some  day —  (She  waited 
with  a  strange  pitiful  impatience) — 'some  day  there'll  be  flowers 
there.'  Although  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  she  knew  he  never 
glanced  towards  her,  but  straight  before  him  over  the  hedge. 
She  felt  it  like  a  formal  repudiation — not  you,  some  other  woman 
shall  make  my  borders  brave.  As  she  walked  steadily  on  beside 
him,  and  he  as  steadily  held  his  peace,  she  kept  the  foolish  tears 
from  falling  by  making  a  singing  little  roundel  out  of  his  hard 
saying:  'Some  day  there  will  be  flowers  there.' 

***** 

For  all  her  watchfulness,  it  seemed  to  be  happening  often 
now,  that  one  or  other  would  stumble  upon  that  horn :  the  Future. 
How  do  they  avoid  it? — those  others  who  are  consciously  to- 
gether 'for  the  present.'  Ah,  it  was  easier  no  doubt  in  towns, 
where  such  things  chiefly  happened — there  all  life  was  tentative 
and  hand  to  mouth.  But  however  fair  your  lot  is  in  the  country, 
you  are  face  to  face  with  the  broad  and  basic  things  upon  which 
life  is  built.  Present  beauty  is  no  more  than  the  cover  of  the  book 
of  the  year.  And  here  at  High  Winston  where  everything  was 
hourly  done  in  reference  to  suns  that  had  not  risen,  and  to  rains 
that  would  be  falling  when  other  moons  had  waned,  here  where 
every  act  was  one  of  faith,  looking  towards  harvest  and  content 
to  wait — how  should  one  walk  here  and  not  think  of  the  future? 
She  fell  to  dwelling  on  it  more  and  more.  When  that  field  is 
sowed  .  .  .?  Where  shall  I  be  when  the  grain  sprouts  there? 
Who  will  walk  here  with  him  when  the  tassels  are  yellow  and 
full? 

He  will  be  just  as  pleased.     He  will  have  his  horses  and  his 


A  DARK  LANTERN  295 

dogs — field,  forest  and  farm — and  in  the  town  his  sick  people 
besieging,  clinging  to  him,  and  his  fame  that  grows  and  grows, 
like  the  saplings  in  the  copse — and  he'll  have  flowers  in  the  bor- 
ders of  his  life,  as  many  as  ever  he  will. 

*  *  #  *  *• 

She  knew  that  before  her  advent  at  High  Winston,  Vincent 
had  usually  gone  back  to  town  by  a  late  train  on  Sunday.  He 
had  never  done  that  in  all  these  weeks — and  she  listened  with 
a  sinking  of  the  heart  as  he  told  Jackson  to  bring  the  dog-cart 
round  for  the  Sunday  afternoon  train. 

The  afternoon!  That  meant  that  he  was  going  somewhere 
— going  to  some  London  dinner-party.  And  on  their  Sunday. 
The  sense  of  being  deserted  fell  chill  upon  her.  She  said  nothing, 
and  strove  to  show  that  her  spirits  were  undashed.  Instinctively 
she  felt  that  he  was  armed  and  braced  to  meet  remonstrance. 
But  she  would  give  him  no  opportunity  to  look  that  look,  and 
say  that  rough  word  held  as  ready  as  any  lance  in  battles  long 
ago.  The  effort  that  it  cost  her  to  'be  just  the  same'  was  a  kind 
of  tonic — till  he  had  driven  away. 

Then  came  the  worst  hours  she  had  known. 

#  *  *  *  * 

Turk,  who  had  gone  with  his  master  to  the  station,  came  back 
towards  six  o'clock,  to  find  his  new  ally  huddled  together  in  the 
depths  of  the  great  chair  by  the  drawing-room  fire.  A  sombre 
twilight  was  filling  the  room,  yet  Katharine  had  not  rung  for 
the  lamps. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  spoke  to  the  dog  with  an  absurd  sense 
of  gratitude  to  the  beast  for  his  coming  back  to  her. 

'  What  do  you  want,  old  fellow  ?  Shall  we  go  for  a  run  before 
it's  dark?' 

The  sound  of  the  wind  rattling  the  casements  and  wailing 
down  the  wide  chimney,  had  brought  so  forcibly  back  that  first 
night  of  her  coming — wrought  so  upon  her  nerves,  that  she  had 
been  saying  ever  since  Vincent  left  her,  that  she  must  go  out 
and  meet  the  wind  in  the  wood,  where  it  piped  a  tune  less  mourn- 
ful, less  mixed  with  the  sorrows  of  men.  But  the  weight  of  her 
wretchedness  had  kept  her  anchored  in  the  great  chair,  till  Turk 
came  in  and  seemed  to  say:  'Yes,  we're  dreadfully  lonely.  Let's 
do  something.' 


296  A  DARK  LANTERN 

She  put  on  a  reefer  and  pinned  a  tam-o'-shanter  on  her  yellow 
hair.  Followed  by  the  dog  and  without  conscious  plan,  she 
found  herself  going  the  way  Vincent  and  she  had  gone  in  the 
morning — down  across  the  bridge  and  past  the  mill  to  the 
field  behind,  where  a  rush-fringed  pond  lay  darkling  in  a  hollow 
below  a  group  of  elms. 

She  had  no  wish  to  see  again  even  dimly  through  the  dusk, 
the  bodies  of  the  young  rooks  blown  out  of  their  nests  by  the 
last  week's  gale.  But  here  she  had  come  with  Garth,  and  here 
she  must  come  again — to  see  if  any  of  him  was  there,  since  he 
was  nowhere  in  the  echoing  house.  She  stood  with  the  dog 
close  at  her  side  and  looked  up. 

These  were  the  tall  trees  that  she  could  see  from  her  bed-room 
windows — even  from  her  bed  she  could  watch  them,  stately, 
black  against  the  dawn,  or  tossing  in  the  winds  of  March,  the 
rooks'  nests  perilously  swinging,  and  the  old  birds  circling,  cry- 
ing— and  now  the  young  rooks  dead  at  the  great  tree's  foot. 

But  she  had  been  right,  the  wind's  song  was  less  sorrowful 
out  of  doors.  Of  no  house  Katharine  had  ever  inhabited  did 
the  wind  take  such  complete  possession  as  of  Garth  Vincent's. 
No  exception  that  night  of  her  arrival.  The  first  impression 
of  draughty  hall,  doors  blown  violently  to,  flapping  shutter  and 
the  voice  of  the  complaining  wind  sighing  in  all  the  chambers 
— that  impression  was  the  one  dominant  and  oftenest  recurring. 

'What  do  you  call  the  place  ?'  she  had  asked  him. 

'I  don't  call  it  anything.' 

'I  shall  call  it  the  House  of  the  Winds,'  she  had  said,  and  it 
was  the  name  she  gave  to  the  first  poem  she  had  written  here. 

Often  she  had  lain  in  her  bed,  and  with  eyes  fixed  on  these 
great  trees,  and  the  high-perched  homes  of  the  rooks,  wondered 
to  herself  the  same  thing  she  had  said  to  Garth  that  morning, 
as  they  two  had  stood  here  looking  up  from  the  dead  birds  to 
the  far-away  nests,  and  then  lower  down  to  the  many  convenient 
crotches  where  young  birds  might  safely  lodge:  'I  thought  dumb 
things  had  such  wise  instinct.  Hasn't  the  rook-race  learned 
how  fierce  the  March  winds  blow?  Don't  they  see  what  comes 
of  building  up  so  high  ? ' 

'You're  expecting  more  of  rooks  than  you  get  in  men,'  he  had 
said  shortly,  and  walked  on. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  297 

The  wind  blew  an  echo  of  the  words  in  her  face,  as  she  stood 
without  him  under  the  elms  in  the  dusk.  What  was  the  use 
of  warning  anybody?  Of  what  good  experience  even?  Here 
was  she,  Katharine  Dereham.  She  had  known  all  her  life  what 
was  the  fate  of  women  who  took  the  step  that  she  had  taken. 
Of  what  use  had  that  been  to  hold  her  back  ? 

As  well  as  the  rooks  she  knew  the  winds  blew  fierce  in  March, 
but  had  she  therefore  built  safely  in  a  crotch  of  the  world's  big 
tree  ?  Not  she — nor  any  other  who  loves  the  nest  hung  high. 

There  was  more  light  out  here  than  in  the  house,  and  one 
could  see  the  glorious  cloud-packed  sky,  lowering,  tumultuous, 
black  masses  driving  across  the  face  of  the  moon,  giving  to  the 
human  atom  looking  up  a  feeling  that  from  some  Godlike  point 
of  vantage  she  watched  the  rolling  of  the  world. 

And  down  here  underneath,  forever  the  rooks  build  high, 
build  high,  and  ever  the  March  winds  blow.  .  .  .  She  went  back 
across  the  darkening  fields  making  a  song.  Hurriedly  the  next 
day,  posting  from  Parminton,  she  sent  it  to  the  London  publisher 
for  inclusion  in  the  book  that  he  was  bringing  out  in  April — 
'A  Kalendar  and  other  Poems,  by  K.  D.' 

***** 

On  the  second  Friday  in  April  he  wired  that  he  would  not 
be  down  till  to-morrow,  and  when  he  came  it  was  to  show  a  tired, 
harassed  face,  a  mouth  set  like  iron.  Katharine  asked  no  ques- 
tions, but  set  herself  with  all  that  she  had  in  her  (and  she  pos- 
sessed a  genius  in  these  things)  to  soothe  and  cheer  him.  It 
lifted  her  very  high  to  find  how  well  she  had  succeeded.  And 
then  on  Sunday  at  noon,  again  that  blow  in  the  face: 

'I  want  the  cart  for  the  afternoon  train.' 

But  she  said  no  word — none  to  Vincent,  but  many  to  Kath- 
arine, cautioning,  admonishing.  I  can  bear  that  he  should  be 
away  all  the  week,  why  should  it  be  so  bitterly  hard  to  let  him 
go  a  few  hours  earlier  ?  But  he  was  a  whole  day  late  this  week, 
wailed  the  heart  of  the  woman.  Never  mind — that  was  because 
he  was  hard  at  work.  He  is  doing  great  things  in  London.  You 
ought  to  be  glad  and  proud.  And  so  I  am.  That  is  why  I  can 
bear  to  be  without  him  so  much  of  the  time.  But  to-day — Sun- 
day, he  goes  to  amuse  himself.  Ah,  but  you  are  mean-spirited! 
You  don't  mind  how  hard,  or  how  incessantly  he  works,  it  is 


298  A  DARK  LANTERN 

a  little  pleasure  that  you  grudge  him.  Oh,  you're  a  poor  crea- 
ture! But  I  don't  grudge  him  pleasure — I  only  want  to  be  the 
one  to  give  it  to  him.  Or,  I  want,  at  the  least,  to  be  beside  him 
when  others  do. 

***** 

'Garth.' 

'Yes.' 

But  she  sat  and  looked  in  the  fire. 

'Well,  what  is  it?' 

'Couldn't  you  stay  with  me  to-day?' 

'No.'    A  long  pause:  'Well?' 

'I  said  nothing.' 

'Why  don't  you?' 

'What  is  there  to  say?' 

'Why,  the  usual  thing  that  women  find  to  say.' 

'  What  is  the  usual  thing  ? ' 

'As  if  you  don't  know!  Why,  I  saw  it  on  your  lips — "Where 
are  you  going?"  "Who  are  you  going  to  see?"]  She  sat  quite 
still.  'Well?  Goon.  Let's  get  it  over.' 

'I  have  never  put  those  questions.' 

'Not  yet.' 

'And  I  never  will.' 

'Why  not?' 

'Perhaps  because  I've  realized  how  afraid  you've  been  that 
I  would.' 

'Humph!    I'm  not  exactly  afraid,  you  know.' 

'It's  true.  You're  only  afraid  when  you  see  I  don't  do  these 
things.'  He  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden  sharp  gleam.  She 
went  on:  'It  disconcerts  you  that  I  don't.' 

'Oh,  does  it?'  he  retorted,  showing  his  teeth. 

'Yes,  you  find  me  unaccountable.  You  don't  like  that.  You 
like  to  be  the  unaccountable  one.' 

'Because  I'm  not  always  explaining  myself?' 

'Because  you're  always  warding  off  an  imaginary  attack  upon 
your  confidence.  And  you  like  to  think  the  past  is  an  impene- 
trable mystery — but  the  mystery  is  growing  very  transparent. 
You  tell  me  so  much  of  it  every  hour  you're  here.' 

'/tell  you!' 

'Yes.     You've   just   told   me   that   you've   known   intimately 


A  DARK  LANTERN  299 

a  nagging  woman.  She  accounts  for  a  good  deal  in  you.'  He 
stared  at  her  suspiciously.  But  Katharine  went  on:  'Yes,  you've 
known  well  some  woman,  who  instead  of  being  glad  when  you 
came  in,  wouldn't  give  herself  up  to  being  glad,  till  she'd  said, 
"Why  are  you  late?"  "Where  have  you  been?"  "What 
made  you  stay  so  long?"  "Who  was  there?"  "Why  must 
you  go  again?"  I'm  not  blaming  that  woman.  I'm  rather 
sorry  for  her.'  He  had  been  frowning,  with  that  don't-you- 
dare-come-any-further  look,  that  he  put  on  when  anyone  ven- 
tured to  touch  upon  his  private  concerns,  and  as  in  despite  of 
that,  she  had  gone  on,  he  jumped  to  his  feet. 

'Good-bye.' 

'Good-bye,'  she  echoed  quietly. 

In  the  act  of  turning  to  the  door  he  paused:  'Like  that?'  He 
stood  with  his  head  on  one  side,  seemed  rather  pleased  on  the 
whole  that  she  made  no  move  to  kiss  him.  She  kept  her  seat 
with  an  effort  of  self-control,  and  she  held  out  her  hand  with 
something  royal  in  it  commingling  of  fine  impulse  and  yet  finer 
repression.  It  was  conciliatory,  and  yet  it  was  of  the  essence 
of  dignity. 

He  had  the  air  of  not  seeing  the  hand  held  out — turned  on 
his  heel  and  laid  his  lean  fingers  on  the  door-knob.  'So  you 
don't  want  to  know  when  I'll  be  back  ? ' 

'I  don't  want  to  ask  you.' 

'Well,  that's  a  good  thing,'  he  laughed  harshly,  and  went 
out. 

Long  she  sat  there.  What  a  life!  What  a  life  for  Katharine 
Dereham!  she  said  to  herself,  and  yet  her  eyes  were  not  so  much 
unhappy  as  wondering. 

The  light  came  into  the  old  room,  level  and  incarnadined. 
Looking  up,  she  saw  the  blaze  of  the  sunset  through  the  delicate 
green  veil  of  young  leafage.  She  went  out  through  the  garden 
which  was  no  garden,  and  into  the  orchard,  which  did  honour 
to  its  beautiful  name.  On  the  gnarled  root  of  an  old  apple-tree 
she  sat  down  to  watch  the  glory  fade.  A  step  behind— and 
without  looking,  her  blood  told  her  who  was  there.  Then  he 
was  not  gone  yet!  He  would  miss  his  afternoon  train  unless  he 


300  A  DARK  LANTERN 

drove  like  mad.  But  driving  like  mad  was  just  what  he  some- 
times liked  to  do. 

She  held  her  breath  as  he  came  up  behind  her,  treading  softly 
on  the  tangled  grass.  Her  heart  flew  out  to  meet  him,  but  she 
sat  quite  still.  He  stopped  and  hesitated.  She  knew  that  he 
was  vaguely  embarrassed,  undecided.  She  had  accustomed  him 
to  welcoming  looks.  It  was  as  if  he  resented  her  obliviousness. 
He  whistled  to  Turk,  with  an  eye  on  Katharine.  When  he  saw 
that  still  she  did  not  move,  he  half  turned  to  go,  on  an  impulse 
of  anger — changed  his  mind,  came  up  and  thrust  a  branch  of 
wild  cherry  blossom  in  her  face.  She  lifted  quiet  eyes.  'It's 
lovely,'  she  said.  He  dropped  the  branch  across  her  lap,  and 
laughing  a  little  wickedly,  as  one  who  remembers  having  played 
a  successful  joke,  and  announces  that  he  does  not  expect  the  victim 
to  be  as  pleased  as  the  perpetrator — he  rubbed  the  back  of  his 
hand  lightly  on  her  cheek. 

She  smiled  up  at  him. 

'You  take  it  like  that,  do  you?'  he  said  suddenly.  And  with 
a  schoolboy's  note  in  his  voice,  added,  'Then  come  for  a  ride.' 

'To  the  station?' 

'No!    The  woods.' 


CHAPTER  IX 

VINCENT  had  pointed  out  to  her  the  publisher's  flaming  adver- 
tisement of  her  book.  She  read  it,  smiling,  but  apologetic. 
What  rot  he  must  be  thinking  it!  And  not  he  alone.  Little 
books  of  verse  were  always  dropping,  still  born,  from  the  London 
press.  Hers  just  another,  like  the  rest.  Those  sonnets  she  had 
written  out  of  such  an  eager  heart.  How  dull,  belated,  lacking 
in  significance,  they  had  looked  forth  from  the  proof.  Ah,  they 
had  not  stood  the  proof,  those  frail  little  things  of  her  making! 
She  threw  the  paper  down,  and  talked  about  a  broken  fence  and 
trampled  grain,  and  whose  fault. 

The  next  Friday  he  brought  down  a  daily  paper  and  a  weekly, 
each  with  a  review  of  Katharine's  'Kalendar';  hailing  a  new 
poet,  calling  on  all  the  world  to  listen  to  'this  new  voice.'  Katha- 
rine stared  hard  at  the  printed  words,  and  felt  she  was  not  awake. 
One  notice  was  signed.  What!  a  'superior'  reviewer  like  John 
Waycott  to  break  away  from  the  stereotyped  mild  praise  and 
tempered  blame,  to  sound  the  loud  trump  and  clash  the  cymbals 
in  this  daring  fashion,  ushering  in  '  a  true  poet ' — '  the  one  woman 
since  Christina  Rossetti  died,  who,'  etc.,  etc.  The  feeling  upper- 
most was  one  of  bewilderment.  It  was  delightful,  of  course, 
but  it  was  chiefly  'queer.'  Her  verses  make  men  feel  like  that? 
Why,  she  must  look  at  them  again,  and  see  what  it  was  they 
meant — those  critics! 

But  not  before  Garth.  Oh,  how  he  must  be  grinning — in- 
wardly, if  not  .  .  .  no,  she  couldn't  look  at  him.  A  feeling  of 
painful  shyness  mastered  her.  'Are  you  coming  out?  it's  beau- 
tiful now  out  of  doors!'  She  stood  with  her  eyes  on  the  sleeve 
of  her  jacket,  pulling  at  a  bit  of  loosened  braid.  Yes,  that,  at 
all  events,  was  very  like  a  poetess;  it  was  too  much  in  character. 

301 


302  A  DARK  LANTERN 

If  people  were  going  to  call  her  a  true  poet,  she  really  must  mend 
her  clothes.  But  it  was  hard,  this  getting  on  without  Natalie. 
A  rustle  of  paper.  She  looked  up,  and  saw  that  Vincent  was 
reading  the  more  flaming  of  the  two  reviews.  For  the  third 
time,  had  Katharine  but  known. 

'Oh  come,  Garth,'  she  said,  making  for  the  door. 

'In  a  minute.'     But  when  he  finished  that,  he  re-read  the  other 
notice,   Loo.     However,  he  had  the  decency  not  to  talk  about 
either  of  them.     Katharine  felt  it  was  very  nice  of  him. 
***** 

An  hour  or  so  after  dinner  that  Friday  night:  'Go  and  sing,' 
he  said — and  she  did. 

'That's  enough  foreign  stuff.     Let's  have  some  English.' 

She  began  Land  of  Hope  and  Glory.  Impatiently  he  inter- 
rupted. 'Sing  the  one  about  the  rooks.' 

'Rooks?'  returned  Katharine,  playing  the  prelude  to  another 
of  her  own  songs.  'You  mean  "The  Blackthorn  and  the  Missel- 
thrush.'" 

'I  don't  anything  of  the  kind,'  he  said  firmly.  'I  mean  the 
one  about 

'  "  Forever  the  rooks  build  high,  build  high, 
And  ever  the  March  winds  blow " ' 

She  coloured  at  the  sound  of  her  song  upon  his  lips.  It  was 
one  of  the  things  John  Waycott  had  quoted.  Katharine  her- 
self had  set  it  to  music,  and  had  sung  it  now  and  then  for  several 
weeks  without,  of  course,  saying  where  she  got  it;  and  always, 
when  Vincent  was  there,  with  a  sense  of  daring,  as  one  making 
bold  experiment.  She  would  have  liked  to  refuse  to  sing  it  now; 
but  she  felt  it  would  be  rather  silly. 

When  she  finished,  and  he  sat  there  quite  still,  expressionless  as 
usual  at  such  times,  a  great  longing  caught  hold  of  her  to  hear  him 
say  something  kind  about  the  song.  Had  it  been  mere  curiosity 
to  hear  it  again  with  this  new  knowledge  of  its  origin  ?  Ah,  if  he 
would  only  say  in  private,  here  with  her  alone  to  listen,  a  tenth, 
a  twentieth  of  what  John  Waycott  had  said  to  all  the  world,  how 
infinitely  happy,  how  rewarded  she  would  be!  She  sat  playing 
softly  and  longing  to  know  what  was  going  on  inside  the  black 
head  that  showed  above  the  back  of  the  armchair. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  303 

'I  thought  you  despised  that  sort  of  thing,'  she  said  at  last, 
still  moving  her  fingers  softly  over  the  keys. 

'Sing  the  rooks  again.' 

And  John  Waycott's  praise  was  gloriously  overtopped! 
*  *  *  *  * 

Even  after  that,  unmeasured  was  her  astonishment  to  find 
that  Vincent  collected  such  notices  of  her  book  as  he  came  across 
during  the  week  in  London,  and  religiously  presented  them  to 
her  when  he  came  home.  He  seemed  never  to  have  heard  of  a 
press-cutting  agency,  though  as  long  ago  as  in  Lady  Peterbor- 
ough's lifetime,  Katharine  had  been  accustomed  to  seeing  little 
packets  of  clippings  in  green  paper,  which  would  set  forth  how 
her  ladyship  and  Miss  Dereham  had  worn  this  and  that  at  the 
Opera,  so-and-so  at  Her  Majesty's  garden  party,  and  how  they 
had  opened  a  bazaar  or  gone  to  the  Riviera.  The  Agency  had 
kept  on  sending  these  things  about  after  Katharine  to  town  or 
country  address:  what  Lord  Peterborough  had  left  her;  how  the 
Sargent  picture  had  been  reproduced;  how  the  original  of  it  was 
seeking  health  abroad.  Several  such  announcements  had  made 
the  journey  from  Peterborough  House  to  Torquay,  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight,  and  thence  to  the  post-office  at  Great  Matley,  a  market 
town  five  miles  from  Winston.  Since  the  publication  of  the 
'Kalendar,'  it  rained  notices. 

With  the  aid  of  green  packets  of  information,  Katharine  knew 
well  enough  how  the  ball  was  rolling  over  there  in  London;  how 
the  slatings  she  had  looked  for,  failed  to  come;  how  she  was 
paragraphed  and  pictured  and  praised;  and  talked  of  as  making 
her  home  now,  for  some  years,  in  Italy.  She  had  secreted  these 
clippings,  with  a  prayer  that  Garth  would  be  too  busy,  if  not  too 
indifferent,  to  read  such  as  he  came  across  in  town.  He  had 
stood  the  Rook  Song  nobly,  but  he  hated  poetry  in  general,  and 
he  hated  what  he  called  'rot.'  There  was  no  blinking  the  fact 
that  'A  Kalendar,  and  Other  Poems,'  came  strictly  under  the 
meaning  of  the  term.  She  could  not  fathom  his  intention  in 
saving  up  these  notices,  and  bringing  them  home  to  her,  if  it 
were  not  to  scoff  at  them  and  her,  in  some  convenient  season. 
Then  one  day  it  came  over  her  with  all  the  force  of  a  thing  gro- 
tesquely out  of  character,  incredible  as  true,  that  Garth  Vincent, 
of  all  men,  was  agreeably  affected  by  the  stir  Katharine's  work 


304  A  DARK  LANTERN 

was  making.  She  had  expected  jeers,  even  anger,  and  behold 
he  was  pleased!  There  was  only  one  thing  that  you  could  foresee 
about  this  man,  and  that  was  that  he  would  surprise  you.  He 
was  positively  proud  that  she  had  raised  this  little  dust  of  praise! 

Well,  well — men  were  very  odd. 

This  was  the  pouring  wet  Sunday,  when  he  had  not  allowed 
her  to  go  with  him  on  his  ride.  He  had  changed  his  soaking 
clothes,  and  come  down  stairs,  dry  and  warm  and  hungry,  for 
the  tea  that  she  had  ready  by  a  great  glowing  fire.  When  he 
had  been  fed,  he  stretched  out  his  feet  comfortably  to  the  blaze, 
glanced  at  the  windows  where  the  late  April  rain  was  dashing 
like  spray  against  the  port-hole  of  a  ship — and  suddenly: 

'What  have  you  been  doing?'  he  said. 

'Nothing  much.' 

'Been  making  any  more  songs?' 

'Of  course  not,'  in  the  tone  of  one  reformed,  who  finds  it  hardly 
fair  to  have  old  sins  recalled. 

'I  believe  you  have.    Where  are  they?' 

'Of  course  I  haven't.' 

'Why,  "of  course"?' 

She  looked  at  him.  Should  she  tell  him?  'You've  been  at 
home.' 

'Well,  I  don't  prevent  you.'  She  only  smiled  a  little.  'What's 
my  being  here  got  to  do  with  it?' 

'  Everything.' 

He  stared  at  the  fire  seeming  to  study  the  matter  profoundly. 

It  would  have  taken  a  man  to  be  surprised  at  Katharine's 
confession.  Quite  certainly,  she  not  only  never  thought  of  her 
'success'  when  he  was  there  (unless  he  thrust  a  newspaper  under 
eyes),  she  had  no  impulse  to  make  other  music,  than  that  best 
of  all — that  may  be  played  upon  the  harp  of  life.  She  had  few 
of  the  illusions,  said  to  beset  'the  women  who  do  things'  as  to 
the  relative  values  of  the  things  that  women  may  do. 

Poetry  on  paper  was  better  than  no  poetry  at  all,  but  if  their 
two  lives  were  out  of  tune,  what  other  music  could  make  amends, 
or  drown  discord  such  as  that?  And  she  was  full  of  growing 
fear. 

All  these  weeks  gone  by,  and  still  no  nearer  to  that  response 
and  fusion,  the  assured  and  practised  unison,  the  fundamental 


A  DARK  LANTERN  305 

harmony  that  was  the  kind  of  poetry  antiphonal  she  longed  to 
have  her  share  of  making  in  the  world. 

No  use,  she  told  herself  the  next  morning  after  he  had  gone 
— no  use  to  blink  the  facts.  Here  in  the  soft  April  sunshine, 
under  apple  trees  in  bloom,  she  stood  environed  still  by  storm 
and  stress  and  the  tempestuous  dark,  by  all  that  had  met  her 
that  December  midnight,  when  he  had  brought  her  here. 

No  difference  between  now  and  then? 

None  but  that  she  loved  him  better,  and  that  people  out  there 
in  the  world  were  making  a  noise  with  her  name. 

The  noise  did  little  to  elate  a  brain  clear-judging  enough,  where 
the  passionate  heart  was  not  the  stake.  Not  that  in  this  she  was 
all  unlike  the  mass  of  the  moderately  enlightened.  For,  although 
the  world  will  more  and  more  care  about  good  work,  the  old 
illusion  about  fame  has  failed  even  the  smaller  folk.  The  very 
word,  if  gravely  used,  has  a  sound  archaic,  and  summons  men  to 
think  in  Greek  and  Latin. 

But  the  selfish  world  is  reconciled.  It  is  seen  that  like  those 
things  made  in  the  sweated  trades,  fame  profits  least  the  men 
who  make  it,  and  too  often  is  chief  mourner  at  your  'Great 
Man's'  funeral — chief  loser  by  the  levelling  of  death.  And  even 
where  the  so-called  'Fame'  abides  a  little,  the  modern  mind 
cannot,  in  that,  read  recompense  to  the  worker  in  his  grave. 
That  this  one  waked  and  wrought  when  we  were  playing  or 

asleep,  it  profits  us  who  played  and  slept who  now  can  think 

it  profits  him? 

And  these  things  are  beginning  to  be  clear  even  to  little  folk, 
when  they  concern  themselves  with  such  matters  at  all. 

The  noise  that  Katharine  Dereham's  poetry  was  making,  was 
just  loud  enough  to  wake  her  from  her  winter  sleep.  A  call  that 
she  had  been  most  happy  to  smile  at  and  then  close  her  ears  to, 
had  life  been  kind.  But  this  noise  that  echoed  out  of  London, 
mixed  with  the  undertone  of  uncertainty  and  fear  that  sounded 
below  the  outer  peace  and  gladness  of  her  life,  mixed  and  swelled 
and  sounded  just  enough  insistent  to  rouse  hev;  make  her  look 
about  with  wide  clear-seeing  eyes,  taking  fresh  note  of  herself, 
and  of  this  shadowed  and  uncertain  way  she  walked  in,  to  an 
end  she  knew  not. 

***** 

20 


306  A  DARK  LANTERN 

While  Katharine,  sitting  on  a  footstool  between  Vincent's 
chair  and  the  fire,  was  tempting  Turk  with  fragments  of  after- 
dinner  biscuit,  she  heard  the  maid  come  in  and  say  in  the  scared 
voice  commonly  employed  by  that  person  in  addressing  'the 
Master' — 'A — a  telegram,  sir.'  Vincent  had  been  leaning  for- 
ward, elbows  on  knees,  chin  in  hand,  watching  the  dog — the 
man's  dark  face  over  Katharine's  shoulder,  almost  touching  her 
yellow  hair.  She  heard  the  envelope  torn  open  close  to  her  ear, 
for  Vincent  had  hardly  altered  his  position.  Still  leaning  forward, 
he  held  the  telegram  so  that  with  a  side  glance  she  could  have 
read  it.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  the  dog.  'No  answer,  now,'  he 
said  gruffly,  and  the  servant  went  softly  out.  Still  he  studied 
the  message  over  Katharine's  shoulder. 

She  had  not  once  looked  round.  Now  she  tossed  up  another 
fragment  of  biscuit,  and  as  Turk  caught  it  in  its  descent,  she 
said:  'He  never  misses  now,  even  when  I  throw  crooked.  Look!' 
Another  ivory  scrap  went  up  in  the  air,  and  again  with  a  lazy 
movement  and  a  mien  of  bored  dignity  Turk  opened  his  jaws, 
and  permitted  the  fragment  to  find  lodgment  in  his  capacious 
mouth.  Katharine  laughed:  'Good  dog.' 

Something  fluttered  down  into  her  lap.  Very  well  she  knew 
it  was  the  telegram,  but  she  took  no  notice — turned  her  head  the 
other  way,  and  called  to  the  new  terrier,  who  had  put  his  nose 
in  at  the  door.  'Let's  see  if  Turk  will  allow  him  in  here.'  Turk 
declined  with  fury,  and  Katharine  had  to  get  up  and  soothe  him. 
As  she  rose,  the  paper  fluttered  to  the  floor,  face  uppermost. 
Vincent  sat  looking  at  it.  Katharine  seemed  absorbed  in  the 
dogs. 

'Give  me  that,  will  you?'  he  said,  lolling  back  in  his  chair. 
She  handed  it  to  him  without  a  glance  at  it. 

'I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do  about  this,'  he  said  presently.  She 
seemed  not  to  hear.  He  left  the  telegram  on  the  mantel-piece 
that  night. 

As  Katharine  stood  before  the  fire  after  breakfast,  the  next 
day,  her  eye  caught  the  signature:  'Nelly.'  She  made  no  sign. 
But  all  day  long  the  name  kept  pricking  her. 

That  evening,  realizing  at  last  that  he  would  wait  in  vain  for 
Katharine  to  touch  upon  the  subject,  he  took  the  telegram, 
scowling,  and  brought  it  to  the  sofa  where  she  sat,  smoothed  it 


A  DARK  LANTERN  307 

out  across  his  knees,  and  swore  under  his  breath.  It  was  mon- 
strous unsympathetic  in  Katharine  not  to  take  notice  of  that. 
She  picked  up  a  book. 

'Have  you  seen  this?'  he  said  at  last. 

'What?'     She  glanced  down.     'It's  not  for  me,  is  it?' 

He  held  it  before  her.     She  read: 

' Leonard  worse — wants  to  come  to  Winston — NELLY? 

'Who  is  ...  Leonard?' 

'Who's  Nelly,  you  mean?' 

'Who  are  they  both?' 

He  had  closed  thumb  and  finger  afresh  over  the  signature 
as  if  it  would  have  pleased  him  to  pinch  Nelly. 

'She's  got  a  rotten  idea  in  her  head  that  it  makes  her  younger 
to  call  herself  by  her  front  name.  She's  the  woman  my  father 
was  fool  enough  to  marry.' 

'Oh!  Then,  Leonard —  She  turned  a  face  of  sudden 
interest  up  to  his.  'Leonard  is  the  .  .  .  Leonard  is  your  brother.' 

'No,  he  isn't,'  he  answered  roughly.  'My  step-mother's  son, 
is  what  he  is.' 

'But  you '  she  had  meant  to  say,  you  are  fond  of  him. 

Instinctively  she  knew  it  would  do  'Leonard'  little  good  to  have 
Garth's  weakness  for  him  formulated.  'You'll  let  him  come, 
I  suppose.' 

'Why  should  I?' 

'Wouldn't  it  do  him  good?' 

'Nothing  does  him  good.' 

'But  he  has  been  here  a  great  deal,  hasn't  he?  Won't  he 
feel ' 

'How  do  you  know  he's  been  here?' 

'Oh,  Mrs.  Jackson  said  something  about  it.'  Whereupon 
Vincent  got  up  suddenly,  crumpled  the  telegram  in  his  hand, 
and  tossed  it  in  the  fire. 

He  never  referred  to  the  matter  again. 

Katharine,  as  Vincent  had  suspected,  would  have  been  quick 
to  resent  it,  had  any  of  his  family  found  her  here  in  her  equivocal 
position.  Unimaginative  as  Vincent  was,  he  had  prefigured 
that,  guessed  that  she  would  shrink  'from  eyes' — had  presented 
the  possibility  of  'eyes'  out  of  mixed  motives,  as  a  test.  Sus- 


308  A  DARK  LANTERN 

picion  had  been  swift  to  ask:  Does  she  think  she  has  any  right 
to  keep  people  away? 

But  Katharine's  heart  had  suddenly  gone  out  to  the  crippled 
boy  that  she  knew  Garth  Vincent  cared  for.  An  instinct  towards 
alliance  with  some  one  who  loved  him,  and  to  whom  he  for  years 
had  shown  steadily  that  kindness  that  he  so  stoutly  repudiated. 

Katharine's  untiring  and  often  successful  effort  to  veil  her 
apprehension  of  the  ugliness  of  her  situation — his  sometimes 
acquiescence  in  the  veiling,  oftener  silent  laughter,  occasional 
comment,  half-savage,  wholly  coarse — they  were  neither  of 
them  strangers  to  any  of  these  things.  She  had  shown  that 
she  could  forgive  him  things  unpardonable.  She  had  not  only 
come  under  the  harsh  spell,  she  could  believe  that  she  had  abated 
somewhat  of  the  harshness.  Although  he  was  as  ready  as  ever  to 
denounce  delicacy  as  'sentimental  rot';  as  ready  when  she  re- 
warded some  concession  on  his  part  by  saying  'you  are  good,' 
to  declare  he  didn't  believe  in  'goodness,'  no  nor  in  honesty, 
nor  in  anything  under  the  sun  but  self-interest  (suddenly  upon 
that  text,  finding  tongue,  and  sparing  her  no  sordid  example 
he  could  cite),  in  despite  of  all  this,  his  speech,  she  told  herself, 
was  less  uncouth  of  late,  and  even  his  manners  better. 

But  he  had  not  been  able  to  eschew  the  malicious  pleasure  to 
be  expected  of  a  woman's  jealousy  of  telegrams  signed  'Nelly' — 
nor  amusement  at  the  notion  of  Katharine  Dereham,  who  lived 
ostrich-like  with  her  head  in  the  sand,  being  brought  suddenly 
to  face  the  prospect  of  some  of  Vincent's  people  appearing  at 
High  Winston. 

She  had  not  intended  it  so,  but  the  effect  of  her  evident  interest 
in  Leonard,  cost  the  boy  a  bidding  to  the  country.  The  thought 
that  Vincent  wanted  to  keep  even  his  sick  little  step-brother  out 
of  her  life  chagrined  her  even  more  than  the  fear  of  'eyes'  had 
made  her  shrink.  Was  he  afraid  this  child  would  tell  her  some- 
thing she  was  not  to  know? 

*•  *  #  *  •* 

The  next  week-end  Vincent  wired  that  he  was  going  to  Corn- 
wall. No  explanation,  no  regret.  No  letter  following.  Silence, 
and  a  bundle  of  papers  addressed  in  his  hand.  More  reviews. 
As  if  they  were  to  make  up! 

No  word  all  the  week.    None  even  on  the  Friday.    Late 


A  DARK  LANTERN  309 

Saturday  evening  as  she  sat  alone,  a  noise  of  horse's  hoofs  beat- 
ing on  the  gravel.  A  crunch  and  swish.  A  vehicle  had  stopped. 
Could  it  be  ...  so  late?  She  ran  to  the  front  door.  It  was 
open.  Vincent  was  paying  a  cabman  from  the  station. 

She  stood  back  in  the  shadow  till  he  came  in,  flung  down  his 
hat  and  gloves  and  stripped  off  his  top-coat. 

She  noticed,  as  she  stood  half  behind  the  door,  how  he  drew 
his  hand  across  his  eyes,  like  one  who  tries  to  see  clearer  in  a 
mist — and  he  stood  listening  a  second  with  head  turned  to  the 
drawing-room. 

She  moved  silently  out  of  the  shadow,  like  a  deeper  shadow 
herself,  and  put  her  arm  softly  round  his  neck.  He  turned 
with  a  start  and  a  recoiling.  She  felt  it  so  curious,  so  terrible, 
that  after  all  that  had  passed,  his  first  impulse  should  be  the 
defensive,  that  she  drew  away  her  arm  and  led  the  way  into  the 
pleasant  lamp-lit  room,  saying  coldly,  'I  didn't  mean  to  startle 
you.'  It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  volunteered  a  caress — • 
it  was  his  tired  movement  of  the  hands  that  prompted  her. 

'Have  you  dined?'  she  said  stopping. 

'Yes,'  he  answered,  brusquely,  pushed  past  her  to  an  arm- 
chair and  dropped  into  it.  How  tired  he  looked!  She  longed 
to  make  him  come  to  the  sofa,  longed  to  take  his  head  in  her 
lap,  to  comfort  him — remembered  that  action  of  instinctive 
withdrawal  in  the  hall  and  sat  motionless,  expressionless  in  her 
corner.  At  such  a  time  the  delicate  white  face  could  wear  a 
look  almost  hard,  and  singularly  aloof.  He  glanced  at  her  once 
or  twice,  out  of  half-shut  eyes.  The  minutes  passed. 

'I'm  going  to  bed,'  he  said,  jumping  up  at  last.  'Dog-tired. 
Good-night.' 

'Good-night,'  and  he  went  up  stairs. 

He  slept  the  greater  part  of  the  next  day — and  then  went 
off  to  ride  alone.  Katharine  strayed  about  the  house  with  a 
feeling  of  suddenly  being  a  stranger  there — a  person  wholly 
without  rights  and  now  unsure  of  welcome. 

What  had  happened?  Something,  plainly.  Probably  some- 
thing to  do  with  his  profession — but  from  time  to  time  she  stabbed 
her  aching  heart  with  the  wonder:  had  his  mood  anything  to  do 
with  a  woman?  Had  he  in  this  last  fortnight  come  to  know 
someone  who But  she  would  not  altogether  admit  the 


3io  A  DARK  LANTERN 

possibility  of  that.  No,  it  was  some  professional  worry.  .  .  . 
But  in  that  case  why  did  he  not  tell  her? 

Ah,  he  didn't  trust  her.  That,  at  least,  was  true  beyond  the 
hazard  of  a  doubt.  She  was  an  outsider  to  his  life — that  was 
the  essence  of  her  disgrace.  Not  lack  of  the  legal  tie;  lack  of 
confidence.  That  degraded  her. 

He  went  back  to  town  in  the  evening  having  hardly  spoken, 
save  a  moody  word  or  two  at  meals. 

Her  effort  to  veil  the  ugliness  in  her  position  broke  down  com- 
pletely. 'Oh,  I  am  punished,  well  punished,'  she  said  to  herself 
with  tearless,  burning  eyes.  '  I  have  tried,  and  I  have  failed.  And 
I  must  bear  it.  But  not  here.  I  cannot  sit  here  alone  with  my 
failure — still  less  read  weekly  comment  on  that  failure  in  his  face.' 

What  should  she  do?  To  go,  at  all  events — to  go!  the  painful 
need  was  mounting  to  a  passion. 

A  sense  of  dizziness  and  turmoil  overwhelmed  her.  Here  in 
the  silence  and  Spring  sweetness  of  the  country,  she  felt  all  the 
affrighted  bewilderment  of  the  rustic  caught  in  the  street  traffic  of 
a  great  city,  deafened  by  the  roar,  unnerved  by  the  myriad  danger. 

The  thing  that  had  overtaken  her  was  a  commonplace  in 
irregular  living,  and  yet  as  easily  console  the  small-pox  patient 
by  pointing  out  how  he  had  put  himself  within  infection's  range, 
as  for  Katharine  Dereham  to  say  to  herself,  this  was  what  in- 
evitably happened.  For  she  could  say,  that  was  not  true.  There 
were  cases — few,  of  course,  but  some — where  the  relation  lasted. 
Others  where  the  woman — especially  your  woman  of  education 
and  independence — where  she  it  was,  who  tired  first.  That  view 
was  not  so  commonly  presented  to  the  world,  but  real  life  stories 
had  ended  so.  For  Katharine,  the  older,  humbler  version,  of 
the  woman  who  cared  not  less  but  more.  'Oh,  I  ought  to  have 
guessed!  I  ought  to  have  known!  If  not  before — from  that 
first  time  he  kissed  me.  I  should  have  fled  away  from  him  as 
I  would  from  a  house  on  fire.' 

Again  Friday  went  by  without  him.  Again  late  Saturday 
brought  him  back — more  like  himself,  that  is,  more  like  his 
better,  happier  self.  She  longed  to  yield  and  soften  to  his  mood, 
but  her  heart  was  over  heavy  for  the  task.  'Before  he  leaves 
me  this  time,  no,  before  ten  o'clock  to-night,  I  will  speak  ...  I 
will  say  that  I  must  go.'  But  it  was  hard  to  find  the  moment — 


A  DARK  LANTERN  311 

harder  still  the  strength.  She  had  to  flog  her  failing  spirit,  say- 
ing: 'Other  women,  that  woman  most  of  all,  against  whose  ghost 
I've  striven,  she  would  cling  fast,  no  matter  at  what  cost  to  per- 
sonal dignity — barnacle-like  such  women  fastened  on  men's 
lives  .  .  .'  Ohl  it  made  her  hot  to  think  that  her  own  feeling 
hitherto  had  blinded  her:  he  may  have  expected  before,  those 
words  she  found  it  so  hard  to  bring  out — he  may  have  found  his 
patience  taxed. 

Ah,  the  whole  thing  was  ugly,  ugly. 

***** 

During  dinner  she  talked  constantly,  like  one  nervously  on 
her  guard,  and  frightened  at  what  might  leap  into  a  pause.  She 
told  him  stories  and  made  him  laugh  in  that  queer  silent  way 
of  his — but  he  kept  an  eye  on  her;  quick  to  feel  the  something 
unusual  in  the  air. 

In  the  drawing-room  she  ignored  the  dogs,  and  moved  rest- 
lessly about,  still  talking.  Presently  she  heard  him  grumbling: 

'Somebody's  taken  away  my  pipe.' 

'Why,  there's  a  cartload  here!' 

'But  the  one  I  want — 

She  drew  it  out  from  behind  a  Chinese  box. 

'This  the  one?' 

'Let's  see?'    He  never  stirred. 

She  took  it  to  him — holding  it  gingerly.     'It  smells  horrid!' 

'No  it  doesn't.'  He  took  it  in  his  left  hand,  and  with  the  right 
he  pulled  her  towards  him.  She  stiffened.  'Come  here — let's 
look  at  you.'  The  scarlet  flew  into  her  face  as  she  drew  away. 

He  felt  for  his  tobacco-pouch,  saying  slyly:  'You've  got  your 
old  colour  back.  It  seems  to  suit  you  down  here.' 

She  winced,  then  took  her  courage  in  her  hands.  'I  think 
with  you,  my  cure  is  complete.'  More  the  something  in  her 
voice  than  in  the  words  arrested  his  attention. 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  while  he  filled  the  pipe. 

Her  throat  felt  dry,  but  she  forced  out  the  words:  'I  think  I'd 
better  go  back  to  town.' 

He  struck  a  vesta — held  the  flame  to  the  pipe's  brown  bowl, 
pulled  a  breath  or  two,  watched  the  tobacco  shreds  catch  and 
glow,  flung  the  match  in  the  grate  and  crossed  his  legs.  Not  till 
then  did  he  speak,  and  what  he  said  was:  'All  right.' 


BOOK  IV 

GARTH 

CHAPTER  I 

SHE  did  not  know  until  that  moment,  that  down  deep  in  her 
heart  lived  the  hope,  the  expectation  even,  of  some  outburst  on 
his  part  of  anger  and  surprise  when  she  should  have  found  the 
strength  to  speak  of  parting. 

But  only  a  lowering  of  the  eyes,  and  those  words  of  ready 
acquiescence:  'All  right.' 

That,  the  sum  of  what  he  had  to  say  at  prospect  of  her  dropping 
out  of  his  life — that,  all  he  had  of  regret  or  of  common  human 
kindness  ...  a  black  look  in  the  fire  and,  'All  right.' 

Turk  got  up  and  stood  before  her,  saying  quite  plainly:  'Bis- 
cuits.' 

'I  must  get  you  some,  doggie.'  Hastily  she  caught  at  the 
excuse. 

Leaving  Vincent  there  with  his  all-compensating  pipe,  she 
carried  upstairs  her  humiliation  and  her  aching  heart,  her  tears 
that  no  summoning  of  pride  would  keep  behind  her  eyes.  She 
locked  her  door  and  flung  herself  sobbing  on  the  bed.  She  had 
thought  that  she  had  stored  up  strength  enough  to  go.  She  saw 
now  that  she  had  counted  on  his  softening — his  realizing  how  he 
would  miss  her,  his  begging  her  to  stay — on  different,  worthier 
terms.  But  no.  'All  right'  and  a  level  look  in  the  fire. 

A  faint  noise  hi  the  dressing-room.  She  hushed  her  sobbing 
to  listen.  Was  it  the  maid?  The  next  moment  Vincent  beside 
the  bed,  saying,  '  What  are  you  crying  about  ? ' 

'I'm  not  crying,'  returned  a  muffled  voice.    He  bent  down. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  313 

She  smelt  his  smoky  breath.  He  tried  to  lift  her  face  out  of  the 
pillow. 

'Don't  touch  me!'  she  cried  with  sudden  passion. 

His  own  face  impulsively  darkened  as  he  released  her.  He 
walked  to  the  dressing-table,  to  the  door,  and  back  to  the  bed 
again,  where  he  stood  straight,  angry,  looking  down. 

'When  do  you  want  to  go?' 

'Directly.     The  first  possible  moment.' 

In  a  fury  he  took  hold  of  her  shoulder,  and  forced  her  to  turn 
her  tear-stained  face  to  the  light.  The  sight  of  it  seemed  to 
reassure  him,  but  he  said  roughly:  'Look  here — have  I  treated 
you  so  badly?' 

'No.' 

'Well,  if  I  had  treated  you  badly,  what  could  you  do  more  than 
want  to  rush  off  at  a  moment's  notice  like  this?' 

'Waiting  won't  make  it — make  it '    Her  voice  failed. 

'I've  got  to  go  to  the  West  of  England  again  in  two  or  three 
weeks;  wait  till  then.' 

'No/'  she  said  it  with  an  outraged  sense  that  every  word  showed 
more  ruthlessly  how  little  it  all  meant  to  him — he  had  got  used 
to  her,  was  ready  to  detain  her  here  a  few  weeks  longer,  till  he 
too  had  to  be  away,  and  so  the  'break'  be  made  quite  easy.  He 
was  scowling  down  at  his  watch-chain. 

'I  told  you  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  stand  it  here,'  he  said. 

'It  is  true.     I  am  not  able  to  stand  it.' 

The  door  bell.     A  telegram,  of  course,  for  no  one  ever  called. 

Vincent  still  stood,  lost  in  thought,  examining  his  watch-chain 
link  by  link.  Voices  downstairs.  Men's  voices.  The  house- 
keeper's raised  in  quavering  excitement.  The  barking  of  the  dogs. 

'Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go '  began  Katharine. 

'Why?' 

'And  see  who  it  is.'  But  still  he  stood  there.  A  fear  caught 
hold  of  Katharine  lest  it  should  be  someone  for  her — Bertie,  or 
Blanche,  or  even  Craybourne. 

Anton  crossed  her  mind.     Suppose  it  was  he! 

As  the  seconds  passed  and  the  sounds  continued,  she  felt  every 
instant  the  more  sure.  Yes,  it  was  Anton,  down  there  in  the  hall. 
He  was  come  to  take  her  away.  And  in  the  very  nick  of  time! 
But  even  as  she  said  this  to  herself,  behold,  the  mere  thought  had 


3 14  A  DARK  LANTERN 

thrown  her  back  again  upon  Garth  Vincent.  She  had  the  impulse 
to  creep  into  his  arms  and  beseech  him  to  let  her  stay — 'for 
always.' 

Still  the  sounds.  Hark!  Was  that  a  child's  voice?  She  got 
up,  brushed  her  handkerchief  again  across  her  eyes,  and,  leaving 
Vincent  leaning  against  the  foot  of  the  bed,  deep  in  some  dis- 
turbing thought,  she  stole  out  upon  the  landing  and  bent  over  the 
banisters. 

It  seemed  as  if  a  discussion  was  going  on  between  men  about 
some  luggage.  Now  a  clear  young  voice  was  saying:  'No  I  won't 
have  anything  brought  in,  till  I've  seen  them.' 

And  Mrs.  Jackson  remonstrating:  'They  doos  go  out  for  walks 
o'  moonlight  nights,  and  sometimes  they  doosn't  get  back  till 
late.'  It  was  then  the  little  parlourmaid  glanced  up  and  said: 
'Oh,  there's  Mrs.  Vincent,  now.' 

Katharine  went  slowly  down.  In  the  angle  of  the  lower  hall, 
half  surrounded  by  the  dogs,  a  pale  little  boy  sat  on  the  oaken 
settle;  a  man  stood  near  carrying  a  dressing-case  and  rug.  The 
cabman  waited  at  the  open  door,  and  the  High  Winston  servants 
were  respectfully  drawing  back,  upon  sight  of  the  lady  coming 
down. 

Katharine  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  slim  little  figure  upon  the 
settle.  The  boy  looked  up.  Hurriedly  fitting  a  crutch  under  his 
arm  with  help  of  the  man,  he  had  pulled  himself  on  his  feet.  As 
he  stood  there,  half  shy,  half  reassured,  it  seemed  to  Katharine  as 
if,  into  this  house  that  she  was  leaving,  he  had  come  unbidden, 
unlocked  for,  like  all  Fate — come  to  bring  definite  good  or  definite 
evil — which?  she  asked  of  the  little  white  face  with  its  grave 
grey  eyes;  of  the  square  forehead  with  the  thick  red-brown  hair 
growing  low;  of  the  mouth  unnaturally  firm  for  one  so  young — of 
the  air  that  animated  all,  an  air  of  character  dashed  with  caprice. 
What  are  you  come  to  bring?  Shall  I  be  humiliated  before  this 
child,  or  shall  I  be  lifted  up  ? 

The  boy  had  been  staring  at  her  with  all  his  eyes.  Katharine, 
pausing  an  instant  on  the  stair,  called  up,  'Garth!  Garth,  your 
little  brother  is  here,'  and  then  ran  down. 

The  boy  held  out  a  hand.  She  took  it  warmly.  'Did  you 
telegraph?  We  never  got  it.  Garth  didn't  know — Garth!'  He 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  stair. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  315 

'Hello!'  called  up  the  young  visitor  eagerly. 

'What  are  you  doing  here?'  said  Vincent  coming  slowly  down. 

The  young  eyes  searched  first  his  step-brother's  unwelcoming 
face,  and  then  Katharine's.  While  still  he  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  'I'm  afraid  you  hate  it? — me  coming  like  this?'  he  said. 

'You've  no  business,'  began  Vincent  harshly,  while  Katharine 
involuntarily  moved  nearer  the  unbidden  guest — 'no  business  to 
be  scouring  the  country  alone.' 

'Garth!'  Katharine  turned  suddenly  and  laid  a  hand  on  Vin- 
cent's arm. 

'I  wasn't  alone.  I  brought  West  along,'  said  the  boy  very 
crestfallen,  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  the  man-servant — 'I 
thought  you  .  .  .  you'd  like  it.' 

'Well,  I  don't!'  said  Vincent  roughly. 

Only  by  an  effort  did  Katharine  prevent  herself  from  expos- 
tulating. 

The  tears  sprang  up  in  the  child's  grey  eyes,  but  manfully 
he  kept  them  back.  'Of  course  I  didn't  know  you  had  got 
married,  or  I ' 

'What  I've  done  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,'  said  the  other  even 
more  angrily.  'When  I  want  you  here,  I  tell  you  so.' 

'You  mustn't  stand.'  Katharine  laid  an  arm  gently  round  the 
young  shoulder  with  a  motion  to  draw  the  boy  down  upon  the 
settle — torn  between  a  wish  to  help  him,  and  a  fear  lest  champion- 
ship from  her  should  not  only  complicate  her  last  difficult  hours 
here,  but  do  the  child's  cause  harm. 

There  are  certain  people  entirely  capable  of  being  kind,  who 
are  ready  to  resent  being  prompted  to  kindness.  She  realized 
Vincent  was  one. 

The  boy  had  swallowed  his  tears,  as,  with  his  servant's  help,  he 
sat  down,  rattling  the  crutch  while  a  slight  spasm  of  pain  flitted 
across  his  face.  'You — you've  usually  been  glad  to  see  me.' 

'And  so  he  is,  really, '  Katharine  reassured  him  under  her  breath. 

'I  suppose  your  mother  told  you  to  come,'  said  Vincent. 

'No.  She — she  doesn't  know  about  it,'  answered  the  boy 
miserably.  'She  won't  like  it,  either.' 

'Garth  I*  Katharine  burst  out,  'you  mustn't  be  unkind.' 

But  already  upon  being  satisfied  that  his  step-mother  had  not 
prompted  the  move,  Vincent  had  been  appeased. 


3i6  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Oh,  well/  he  mumbled,  half  turning  away,  'now  that  you're 
here ' 

The  boy  looked  up  quickly. 

'You  know  I  wouldn't  have  come  if  I'd  understood.' 

'Understood  what?'  demanded  Vincent,  as  sharply  as  before. 

'Why '  He  looked  at  Katharine,  and  seemed  to  take  heart. 

A  little  smile  flickered  round  the  mature,  firm  mouth.  'I  was 
most  awfully  surprised  when  Mrs.  Jackson  told  me  you'd  got 
married.' 

Silence.  Katharine  held  her  breath.  In  a  more  collected 
moment  she  would  have  known  even  Vincent  would  be  incapable 
of  explaining  to  this  child,  but  now  her  feeling  was  of  one  who 
escapes  a  danger  closely  skirted,  when  she  heard  the  harsh  voice 
saying:  'Did  you  expect  me  to  consult  you?' 

The  boy  laughed  at  that,  nervously,  but  with  returning  spirits. 
'Well — people's  family  usually  hear  about  it,  don't  they?' 

'I  haven't  got  a  family.' 

The  boy  looked  down,  abashed. 

Katharine  took  his  hand,  and  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  her  face 
she  smiled,  and  gave  a  little  nod,  as  much  as  to  say:  'We  know 
he  doesn't  mean  that.' 

'Well,  anyhow,'  said  the  intruder,  'I  believe  it's  a  piece  of  luck 
for  me  as  well  as  for  you.' 

'What  is?' 

'That  you're  married.'  He  hesitated,  remembering  the  recent 
shock  to  his  anticipations:  'Maybe  I'm  wrong,  but  I  don't  believe 
she  means  to  send  me  away.' 

Katharine  glanced  hurriedly  at  Garth,  and  saw  a  look  in  his 
face  that  told  her  the  boy's  cause  was  safe. 

'Oh,  has  she  asked  you  to  stay?'  He  was  laughing  his  silent 
laugh,  as  Katharine  left  the  settle  to  speak  to  the  housekeeper, 
the  only  one  of  the  servants  who  had  ventured  to  remain.  Even 
that  privileged  person  had  discreetly  withdrawn  inside  the  dining- 
room  door.  Katharine  heard  from  her  that  Master  Leonard 
always  had  the  little  octagon  room. 

'Then  have  it  got  ready,  please.' 

Vincent  had  gone  out  to  give  orders  about  the  trunks  and  the 
invalid  chair.  'And  you  must  be  hungry,'  said  Katharine, 
coming  back  into  the  hall. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  317 

'I  oughnt't  to  be,'  returned  the  boy,  watching  her  with  atten- 
tive eyes, — 'but  I  believe  I  am.' 

'  Of  course  you  are.  Come  in  here.  It  won't  take  them  long 
to  get  you  something —  She  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room, 
and  at  the  door  looked  back,  expecting  to  see  him  following  on 
his  crutch.  What  she  did  see  was  that  Vincent,  having  made  fast 
the  front-door,  came  back  to  the  settle,  just  behind  the  servant. 
The  man,  having  deposited  rug  and  dressing-case  at  the  foot  of 
the  stair,  had  returned,  and  was  bending  down  as  if  to  lift  the 
boy.  Leonard  drew  back,  then  made  a  little  friendly  gesture 
of  'No,  not  you!'  and  held  up  his  arms  to  Vincent.  With- 
out a  word  being  exchanged,  or  on  Vincent's  part  a  look,  he 
picked  up  his  unbidden  guest  and  carried  him  into  the  dining- 
room. 

Ah,  he  does  care! 

The  table  was  just  as  they  had  left  it  half  an  hour  before. 
Hurriedly  Katharine  made  a  place  ready  and  herself  sat  down 
beside  the  boy.  Turk  came  squeezing  in  between  them. 

Katharine  had  watched  with  hidden  tenderness  not  only  how 
skilfully  Garth  had  lifted,  put  down,  and  helped  the  cripple — but 
how  practised  all  his  service  was.  No  new  thing  this,  tacitly  to 
make  up  for  a  rude  reception.  It  was  done  with  all  the  ease  of 
long  custom  and  all  the  gathered  beauty  of  old  kindness.  The 
cripple  had  shrunk  and  set  his  face  when  the  man-servant  bent 
over  him.  He  had  given  himself  up  to  his  step-brother  with 
confidence  and  smiling.  He  was  eating  and  talking  away,  now, 
as  if  no  cloud  had  rested  on  his  arrival,  Vincent  on  his  right,  with 
an  air  of  watchful  content  and  a  second  pipe. 

Presently,  'How  long  can  I  stay?'  said  Leonard. 

Katharine  rolled  bread-crumbs  on  the  cloth. 

'Hum — oh, — we'll  see,'  returned  Vincent,  obviously  at  a  loss. 

'I'm  not  asking  you.     I'm  asking  her.' 

Then,  as  Katharine  made  no  instant  answer,  'Well,  how  long 
should  you  think  you  can  put  up  with  him?'  said  Vincent 
maliciously,  looking  at  her  across  the  boy. 

Katharine  reached  over  the  cloth  for  a  far-away  crumb,  and 
gathered  it  solicitously  into  the  little  pile  with  the  others. 

'  Perhaps  she'd  like  to  know  me  better  before  she  decides,51  said 
the  small  guest  hastily,  but  his  confident  look  had  clouded. 


3i8  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Oh,  7  wanted  you  to  come  before,'  said  Katharine. 

'No!    Did  you?'  he  beamed.     'And  mother  never  told  me.' 

'Where  is  your  mother?'  asked  Katharine  with  suppressed 
anxiety. 

'She's  gone  back  to  London.' 

'Left  you  alone  at  St.  Ives?'  demanded  Vincent. 

'Oh,  she  had  to  go.  They  want  her  to  be  a  chairwoman  at 
a  Primrose  League  something — and  there  were  several  very  im- 
portant things ' 

— dare  say,'  grunted  Vincent.     'What  put  it  into  your  head 
to  come  here?' 

'  Oh,  you  know  that  was  in  my  head  when  you  first  came  down 
to  see  me.' 

'And  I  said  you  were  to  stay  where  you  were.' 

'Yes,  but  you  promised  to  come  back.  And  you  didn't.  Now 
I  know  why.'  He  laughed  roguishly  up  at  Katharine. 

'When  I  promised  to  come  back  you  were  ill.  When  your 
mother  wrote  that  you  were  all  right — 

'Oh,  of  course,'  interrupted  the  boy,  with  an  old-fashioned  air 
of  that  knowing  all  which  forgives  all, — 'you  couldn't  leave — what 
am  I  to  call  you?' 

'My  name  is  Katharine.' 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  took  her  in  with  an  aspect  of 
great  satisfaction  to  himself.  'I  never  had  a  sister  before.  It's 
awfully  jolly.'  Vincent  puffed  out  the  smoke,  and  Katharine 
rolled  bread.  Then,  as  if  in  his  old-fashioned  way  the  child  were 
wondering  how  things  in  general  had  impressed  the  new  member 
of  the  family:  'Isn't  this  a  nice  kind  of  a  place?' 

'Yes,  indeed,'  assented  Katharine. 

'She  don't  think  much  of  it,'  muttered  Vincent. 

Katharine  and  the  little  guest  exchanged  understanding  smiles. 
'Of  course,  we  both  know  Garth,'  he  telegraphed.  Then  aloud: 
'And  don't  you  rather  like  the  pond?' 

'Oh  yes,  and  the  big  trees ' 

'And  the  rooks,'  added  Vincent. 

'Yes.  Did  you  know  there's  stickle-backs  in  the  little  river?' 
said  the  boy  eagerly. 

'No— really?' 

'Lots.     Did  you  ever  fish  ?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  319 

'Oh  yes,'  responded  Katharine  with  an  enthusiasm  that  sur- 
prised herself. 

'Now  I  think  you'd  better  get  to  bed,'  said  Vincent,  pushing 
back  his  chair. 

'Oh,  Garth,'  said  the  boy,  'let's  talk  a  little  about  fishing 
first.' 

'  No.     But  you  can  ask  her  to  sing  you  one  song  before  you ' 

'Does  she  sing,  too  ?' 

They  all  laughed. 

It  seemed  to  please  something  she  had  not  suspected  in  Vin- 
cent, to  show  her  off  to  this  little  member  of  his  family. 

He  put  Leonard  into  the  arm-chair  and  opened  the  piano. 
Katharine  sang  one  song  after  another  upon  the  boy's  imploring. 
Vincent  seemed  to  forget  he  had  said  just  'one.' 

When  she  had  finished  'The  Blackthorn  and  the  Missel-thrush' 
Leonard  clapped  his  hands.  'Why,  that  song  might  have  been 
written  in  the  lane  between  Matley  Church  and  the  Coxon's 
thatch  cottage ' 

'That's  where  it  was  written,'  says  Vincent. 

'How  do  you  know?'  laughed  Katharine. 

'Was  it  written  there?'  asked  Leonard,  mystified. 

'You  remember  where  the  hill  goes  up  sharp  into  the  wood?' 
said  Katharine. 

'Rather.  That's  near  our  old  picnic  place,  isn't  it?'  Vincent 
nodded.  'I've  spent  three  birthdays  here,'  announced  the  boy. 

'When  is  the  birthday  due?' 

'  Twelfth  of  May.  That  was  a  jolly  picnic  you  made  last  year,' 
he  said  to  Vincent  with  charming  guile. 

'Who  was  there?'  asked  Katharine,  and  then  regretted  the 
question. 

'Oh,  me  and  Garth  and  Turk  and  Jackson,  and  the  collies. 
We  had  awful  fun,  didn't  we  ? ' 

Vincent  nodded.  Then,  bending  down  over  the  grate  to  knock 
the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe:  'I  can't  do  it  this  year.  I'm  going 
away.'  Then,  in  the  pause,  he  glanced  suddenly  at  Katharine, 
who  was  closing  the  piano.  'But  she  might,  if  you  got  on  the 
good  side  of  her.' 

Leonard  looked  eagerly  at  the  lady's  grave  face.  As  she  said 
nothing:  'I  expect  it  would  be  a  lot  of  trouble  for  her.' 


320  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'No.  It  would  be  delightful,'  rejoined  Katharine  hurriedly. 
'But  the  twelfth  is  a  good  way  off.' 

'Only  three  weeks,'  said  Vincent. 

'Three  weeks  and  two  days,'  amended  Leonard. 

'She  hates  it  here,'  said  Vincent,  putting  his  pipe  in  the  rack. 
'All  rot  about  the  pond  and  the  rooks!  Don't  even  care  about 
horses,  really.  Just  like  your  mother.  Dying  to  get  back  to 
town.' 

'Oh,'  said  Leonard. 

'Don't  believe  all  he  says.'  Katharine  was  smiling  with  a 
sense  that  tears  were  close  behind.  Garth  must  know  per- 
fectly how  hard  it  was  for  her  to  go.  Why  did  he  want  to  tor- 
ture her? 

'It  isn't  true?'  demanded  Leonard  quickly.  'You  do  like 
this  place?' 

'Well,  if  she  does,  you  may  get  your  picnic  after  all,'  said  Vin- 
cent, as  he  lifted  the  boy  in  his  arms  and  carried  him  out — Turk 
close  on  his  heels;  for  Turk  knew  well  enough  he  was  expected 
to  sleep  in  the  octagon  room,  too,  when  Master  Leonard  was 
at  High  Winston. 

Yes,  for  that  boy,  at  least,  Garth  Vincent  cared!  'I'll  come 
and  say  good-night  in  two  or  three  minutes,'  Katharine  called 
after  them. 

But  she  stood  exactly  where  they  had  left  her  till  Vincent  re- 
appeared. 'Oh!'  she  started  out  of  her  reverie:  'I  was  going 
to  put  out  the  lights.  You  needn't  have  come  back.' 

'Yes,  I  need.' 

Speaking  absently,  while  she  turned  out  the  tall  standard  near- 
est her,  'What  for?'  she  said. 

'Why,  for  you.' 

Had  he  divined  her  determination,  made  in  the  hopeless  grief 
of  the  earlier  evening,  to  effect  the  break  that  night? — to  make 
it  complete  and  final,  since  come  it  must.  Bitter  as  that  hour 
had  been,  it  had  come  to  her  nobly  attended,  with  courage  and 
with  resolution.  But  where  were  these  high  companions  now? 
Had  they  gone  gravely  out,  when  Leonard  opened  the  door, 
admitting  other  influences  in  his  train:  compassion,  and  the 
natural  drawing  together  of  poor  human  folk,  who  need  help 
and  who  bring  love?  Certainly  her  sense  of  personal  suffering 


A  DARK  LANTERN  321 

and  humiliation  had  fallen  far  into  the  background,  as  she  had 
stood  there  watching  Vincent,  skilled  and  strangely  gentle,  carry- 
ing the  boy  to  bed. 

Ah,  very  true,  it  was,  he  cared! 

The  sight  had  set  other  fancies  stirring. 

If  it  were  her  child 

Vincent  put  out  the  last  light.  Now  the  room  was  dark.  She 
went  into  the  hall,  remembering  vividly  that  she  had  meant  to 
turn  to  him  on  the  threshold  and  say  good-night.  What  she  did 
say  was:  'I  must  go  and  see  if  Leonard  has  everything.' 

'I've  done  that.'  He  turned  out  the  lower  hall  light  and  fol- 
lowed her  closely  up  the  stair.  She  went  on,  with  the  radiance 
from  above  catching  in  her  hair,  and  with  no  word,  but  a  breath- 
less sense  of  his  having  heard  the  unspoken  '  Good-night,'  which 
was  to  say  as  well,  Good-bye.  At  the  head  of  the  stair,  she  turned 
to  go  down  the  corridor  to  the  octagon  room.  He  stopped  her 
abruptly  with: 

'Leonard's  all  right.' 

'  Oh — then  I  — I'll  just  say  good-night  to  him.' 

'I've  said  it  for  you.  You  can  do  it  every  night  for  the  next 
three  weeks — till  I  come  back.'  He  stood  a  little  impatiently, 
waiting  for  her.  '  Leonard  mustn't  talk  any  more.  He's  excited 
enough  as  it  is.'  Then,  drawing  nearer  and  dropping  his  voice: 
Tve  told  him.' 

She  opened  her  lips,  and  no  sound  came. 

She  leaned  against  the  wall,  feeling  faint  with  disgust.  Little 
or  nothing  of  what  filled  her  heart  was  written  in  her  face,  but  a 
sudden  pallor  had  wiped  out  the  '  old  colour '  as  clean  as  a  sponge 
may  wipe  a  slate.  He  had  done  the  incredible. 

'So,'  she  said  quite  low,  'you  have  told  the  child.'  It  was  the 
end. 

'I  ought  to  have  waited  till  morning.  He's  such  a  rum  little 
chap.  Takes  all  that  kind  of  thing  frightfully  seriously.'  A  sick 
and  dizzy  feeling  made  her  lean  hard  against  the  wall  a  moment. 
'Most  boys  wouldn't  care  tuppence,  you  know.'  She  stood  up 
straight — looked  right  and  then  looked  left.  Where  should  she 
take  refuge  for  the  night?  'But  Leonard's  always  been  poring 
over  books.  And  he's  never  seen  a  real  live  poet  before.' 

'A  poet?'  she  said  scarce  audibly. 

21 


322  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Yes,  a  genius,  you  know,'  and  he  grinned  as  at  some  capital 
joke. 

'You  . .  .  then,  what  you've  been  telling  Leonard  is ' 

'You  don't  really  mind?'  She  detected  a  suspicion  of  anxiety 
under  his  amusement.  'He's  sure  to  know  some  time.' 

'  What  was  it  you  told  him  ? ' 

' That  it  was  you  wrote  "The  Blackthorn  and  the  Missel-thrush  " 
— and  all  the  rest.' 

'Oh.' 

Vincent  was  standing  under  the  light,  hands  in  pockets,  silently 
chuckling.  '  You  ought  to  have  seen  his  eyes.  Never  knew  such 
a  rum  little  chap.' 

Did  he  guess  how  changed  and  gentle  his  own  eyes  were  when 
he  talked  about  the  boy?  Indeed,  indeed  he  cared! 

'  What  did  Leonard  say  ? ' 

'Said  he  felt  very  "queer  and  heavenly"  while  you  were  sing- 
ing!' Vincent  interrupted  himself  with  a  smothered  burst  of 
laughter.  'And  I  explained  it.' 

'  Oh  ?    How  did  you  do  that  ? ' 

'Told  him  it  was  no  doubt  because  you  were  what  they  call 
a  genius.'  His  teeth  were  shining  in  a  silent  laugh,  as  he  lifted 
up  his  hand  to  find  the  screw  that  should  turn  out  the  light. 

'I'm  not  a  genius!'  she  said  rather  hotly,  resenting  being  ex- 
ploited to  amuse  a  child. 

'Well,  that's  what  I  read  in  the  papers,'  he  persisted. 

'Whatever  I  am,  you  make  me  wish  I  was  somebody  else.' 

He  dropped  his  uplifted  hand,  and  looked  at  her.  Her  voice 
had  had  a  queer  ring  in  it. 

'Wish  you  were  somebody  else?     Who?' 

'Some  little  white-faced  boy — who  can't  walk  without  a  crutch.' 

'Why?' 

'I  think  then,  perhaps,  you'd ' 

'What?' 

She  shook  her  head,  with  eyes  slowly  filling. 

'Go  in,'  he  said;  'I'm  turning  out  the  light.' 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  twice  as  long  as  Vincent  had  stipulated  before  High 
Winston  saw  him  again.  Katharine  wondered  sometimes  at  her 
patience.  But  in  truth  she  had  hugged  close  the  soft  green  days 
in  lane  and  wood,  following  Leonard's  chair,  or  sitting  by  the 
rush-fringed  river,  or  under  the  late-come  leafage  of  the  oaks, 
beside  the  boy  Garth  loved,  and  who  in  turn  had  made  an  Abgott 
of  the  man. 

They  talked  of  a  thousand  things,  those  two,  but  of  nothing 
so  much  as  Garth. 

'If  I  had  not  loved  him  before,'  she  would  reflect,  'Leonard 
would  have  made  me.'  Yet  Leonard  had  small  share  in  the 
Garth  of  those  last  hours,  that  memory  dwelt  on,  doating.  He 
had  exacted  a  promise  from  her,  an  odd  enough  thing  for  him 
to  do.  'You  won't  go  away,  no  matter  what  happens,  before 
I  get  back  ? ' 

'No.' 

'Not  for  a  day?' 

'Not  an  hour,'  she  had  said,  adding,  'How  anxious  you  are 
about  that  boy.' 

'About —  Oh,  Leonard.  Well,  you've  promised,  haven't 
you?' 

'Yes,  I've  promised.' 

And  so  she  stayed  on,  strangely  content,  living,  as  such  blinded 
ones  may  do,  on  an  all-sufficing  memory.  For  whatever  went 
before,  whatever  might  come  after,  he  had  loved  her  in  those 
test  hours. 

'I've  been  so  afraid  you  would  be  wanting  to  go  up  to  town,' 
Leonard  had  said,  gratefully,  as  the  time  drew  to  a  close.  'I 

323 


324  A  DARK  LANTERN 

never  had  such  a  nice  visit  here  before.  It's  always  been  rather 
lonely  in  the  middle  of  the  week.' 

'But  this  time  you've  had  so  little  of  your  brother.  I'm  afraid 
you  miss  Garth.' 

'Not  so  much  as  I  used  to  when  I  was  all  alone  here,  with 
only  West  and  the  Jacksons,  from  Sunday  night  till  Friday.' 

'I  suppose  you  had — visitors,  sometimes?' 

'No,  Garth  hates  'em! '  Then  with  face  grown  suddenly  grave: 
'Mother  wants  to  come  down  on  Friday.' 

Katharine  had  often  wondered  in  what  fashion  she  figured  in 
the  weekly  letters  exchanged  between  Mrs.  Vincent  and  her  son. 
But  no  word  had  yet  enlightened  her,  and  she  could  not  have 
questioned  the  child. 

'I  telegraphed  to  Garth  about  it,'  he  said  after  a  thoughtful 
little  pause. 

She  looked  up.     'No  answer  yet?' 

'No.     I'll  have  it  to-night,  I  should  think.' 

When  it  came,  he  gave  it  at  once  to  Katharine. 

'Say  no  room  this  week.    Next  if  she  likes. — GARTH.' 

Ah!  That  must  mean  he  was  coming — Garth  himself!  At 
last!  But  did  it  mean,  too,  that  he  was  bringing  people? 

Mrs.  Vincent  must  have  resented  the  message,  for  she  wired 
back  that  her  son  was  to  return  to  her  at  once,  or  she  would  come 
and  fetch  him. 

'You  see  she  doesn't  know  there's  anybody  here,'  Leonard 
apologized  for  her, — 'and  she  thinks  it  isn't  very  nice  of 
Garth.' 

'Your  mother  imagines  you  are  quite  alone  all  this  time?' 

'Oh,  with  West,  you  know,  and  the  Jacksons — and  Garth  at 
the  week-ends.' 

'Then  you  haven't  said '  she  meant  to  add:  'that  Garth 

hasn't  been  here  for  six  weeks?'  but  she  could  not  even  to  that 
extent  question  the  boy.  She  got  up  hastily. 

Leonard  was  looking  at  her.  'I  haven't  told  mother  the  great 
news — about  you.  I  think,  from  what  Garth  said,  he  wants  to 
do  that  himself.' 

Very  unwillingly  the  boy  went  back  to  town  early  the  next 
morning.  Katharine's  sorrow  at  his  going  was  swept  out  of 


A  DARK  LANTERN  325 

existence  by  the  wave  of  eager  joy  that  rushed  upon  her  at  getting 
a  note  from  Vincent — the  first  that  had  ever  come. 

'Dear  K., — Back  to-morrow  by  the  6.22.  Send  a  wire  to  say 
you  will  be  at  the  station. — G.  V.' 

Was  this  his  way  to  bar  all  chance  of  being  taken  by  surprise  ? 
Did  he,  in  spite  of  Leonard's  frequent,  though  never-answered 
letters,  full  of  Katharine,  as  she  knew,  and  of  their  days  together 
— did  he  doubt  that  she  would  hold  out  to  the  very  end  of  a  time 
so  much  longer  than  he  had  given  her  any  hint  of  ?  Her  answer 
was  simply:  /  will  meet  you. — K. 

And  she  did. 

'I'm  afraid  you'll  be  disappointed  when  you  hear ' 

'What?'  he  interrupted  sharply,  pausing  as  he  was  about  to 
get  into  the  dog-cart. 

'  Leonard's  mother  sent  for  him.    He  went  back  yesterday.' 

'Oh,  I  knew  that.' 

Jackson  from  the  back  seat  presented  an  accumulated  budget 
of  the  happenings  in  stable,  kennel,  and  field. 

They  dined  out  on  the  lawn,  an  arrangement  Vincent  scoffed 
at,  but  obviously  enjoyed.  And  they  were  gayer  than  ever  they 
had  been  together.  As  they  strolled  about  afterwards,  Katharine, 
too  full  of  joy  in  his  return  either  to  make,  or  even  to  remember, 
'plans'  or  any  form  of  taking  thought  for  the  morrow,  listened 
contentedly  to  Garth's  observations  on  the  tremendous  change  a 
few  weeks  makes  in  the  country  at  this  time  of  the  year;  heard 
him  with  gladness  saying  after  a  little  pause:  'Leonard  seems  to 

have  enjoyed  himself  down  here '  and  then,  upon  his  sudden 

halting  at  the  hedge-gate,  heard  all  her  happiness  come  crashing 
in  ruin  about  her  ears  upon  his  adding:  'It  was  nice  of  you  not 
to  go  till  I  got  back.' 

Not  to  go  tiU 

She  stood  motionless,  while  steadily  he  looked  at  her.  Nothing 
in  life  had  ever  hurt  her  as  his  eyes  did  at  that  moment. 

'You  forgot  I  promised,'  she  found  voice  to  say — 'promised 
you  I  would  wait  till  you  got  back,  before  I ' 

'I  know.' 

'And  now  I  suppose  I  can  go?' 


3 26  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'For  how  long?'  he  demanded. 

'For  how  long?' 

'Yes.' 

The  ghost  of  the  Other  Woman  nerved  her.  She  had  come 
back,  then!  .  .  .  But  Katharine  would  never  be  among  the 
'again-goers.' 

'You  don't  think  I'm  going  for  good?' 

'No.' 

'You  think  I  couldn't  bear  that?' 

'Why  should  you?' 

'Do  you  know  of  any  reason  why  I  shouldn't  .  *  .  try  to 
bear  it?' 

'Yes.' 

Lightning-quick,  a  sense  within  her  of  barring  the  door  with 
both  hands  against  hope — hope  too  long  illusive  to  be  let  in  now. 
She  was  thankful  she  had  not  taken  that  brusque  'Yes!'  too 
simply,  for  straightway  he  was  qualifying  it,  ' — unless  I'm  much 
mistaken' — hesitated  and  looked  at  her  while  she  shrank,  not 
knowing  why  she  did,  for  the  dark  look  was  glowing.  In  spite  of 
telling  herself  that  she  hoped  for  nothing  any  more,  his  pause, 
the  sense  of  waiting,  affected  her  like  some  intolerable  physical 
pain.  She  broke  the  silence  rudely. 

'I  thought  you  realized,  I've  only  waited,  to  keep  my  promise. 
But  of  course  I'm  going  to-morrow.' 

'You  can't  go!' 

'What  makes  you  think  that?' 

She  saw  him  glance  sharply  over  the  hedge,  was  herself  vaguely 
conscious  of  two  heads  appearing  some  yards  away  above  the 
flat,  clipped  top.  Garth  rested  his  hand  on  the  gate  and  leaned 
towards  her,  speaking  his  next  words  as  low  as  if  they  two  had 
been  in  a  room  full  of  people. 

'No!'  she  cried. 

His  eyes  were  lit.     '  Yes! — unless  I'm  very  much  mistaken.' 

Quite  near  now,  above  the  hedge,  those  two  heads  coming 
swiftly.  Jackson  with  one  of  the  farm  hands,  both  bicycling. 
The  bodyless  apparition  glided  along  on  the  top  of  the  close- 
clipped  laurel,  like  an  illusion  produced  by  some  juggler,  but  no 
stranger,  at  that  moment,  than  any  other  trick  played  by  the 
arch-juggler,  life. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  327 

'Good-evening,  ma'am.     Evening,  sir.' 

The  two  heads  went  tobogganing  by,  on  the  downward  slanting 
hedge.  Still  she  stood  where  this  new  thing  had  found  her,  stood 
there  in  the  failing  light,  fathoms  deep  in  silence,  utterly  without 
motion,  or  even  changing  look,  yet  feeling  herself  to  be  blown  along 
by  the  sudden-veering  wind  of  Destiny,  with  a  too  great  momentum 
for  any  thinking,  or  seeing,  or  even  clear  and  final  feeling. 

Out  of  the  blackness  of  the  chaos  in  her  mind,  one  thought 
was  rising  clear:  after  all,  the  relation  she  had  borne  to  this  man 
could  not  now,  in  the  eternal  nature  of  things,  be  episodic,  soon 
ended,  and  overlaid  by  the  multitudinous  littleness  of  life.  That 
last  disgrace  of  triviality  was  not  to  cling  mocking  about  the  story. 
The  great  abiding  link  between  man  and  woman  was  established 
between  him  and  her.  A  thrill  went  through  her  at  the  realiza- 
tion: something  of  him  would  be  always  with  her  till  she  died. 
The  thought  offered  sanctuary.  He  might  treat  her  as  he  liked, 
might  go  where  he  would,  this  with  care  and  fostering  should 
abide.  This  much,  out  of  her  love  and  suffering,  she  had  won. 

And  she  hugged  the  thought;  seeing  quick  glimpses  of  life 
abroad,  in  seclusion,  and  in  earnest  living  for  the  sake  of 

Then,  consciousness  of  that  figure  leaning  on  the  gate,  those 
eyes,  came  pricking  through  her  lulling  dream  of  recompense. 

She  turned  abruptly,  and  began  to  retrace  her  steps  through 
the  shrubbery  to  the  house.  But  he  was  at  her  side. 

'Well!'     She  answered  nothing.     ' What  are  you  going  to  do ?' 

'I  don't  yet  know.' 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  took  her  arm,  forcing  her  to  keep 
his  pace.  'No,  tell  me.'  As  she  walked  on,  her  fair  head  held 
up,  shining  still  in  the  fainter  light,  he  said:  'A  man  and  a  woman 
who  spend  their  lives  together  ought  to  have  children.' 

'Spend  their  lives  together?'  she  echoed  under  her  breath. 

'Yes.  At  first  I  wasn't  sure.  I  hadn't  seen  enough  of  you, 
you  hadn't  seen  enough  of  me,  to  know  what  chance  we  had  of 
getting  on  together.' 

(Gods!  how  commonplacely  he  pulled  her  passion  down:) 
'And  now,  as  you  begin  to  feel  sure,  I  begin  to  doubt,'  she  said. 

Another  man  would  have  stopped  to  remonstrate,  and  try  to 
recover  ground.  He  went  headlong  on:  'Besides,  women  are 
kittle  cattle.  You  think  they're  all  right,  and  they're ' 


328  A  DARK  LANTERN 

' all  wrong?'  she  suggested  faintly. 

'Rotten!' 

She  tore  her  arm  out  of  his  hold,  but  he  caught  her  wrist. 
Instead  of  apology:  'I've  seen  too  much,'  he  said  roughly.  He 
stood  still  by  the  garden  seat,  obliging  her  to  do  the  same.  As 
she  made  no  rejoinder,  'I  won't  run  risks,'  he  threw  in.  Silence, 
He  let  go  her  arm.  With  release  from  his  rough  sustaining,  a 
faintness  fell  upon  her.  She  dropped  upon  the  garden  seat. 

'Well?'  he  said,  waiting. 

'That  night' — at  last  she  was  bringing  out  the  breathless 
words — 'that  night,  just  before  Leonard  came,  when  I  said  I 
must  go — you  hadn't  made  up  your  mind  then.' 

'Yes,  I  had.' 

'But  when  I  said  I  was  going,  you  answered,  "All  right."' 

'Well?  I  didn't  blame  you  for  not  wanting  to  be  buried  at 
High  Winston  for  ever.' 

Then  as  Katharine  sat  silent,  throwing  back  this  light  upon 
the  past,  he  went  on,  'I  should  have  been  thick-witted  if  I  hadn't 
found  out  by  that  time.'  He  left  the  sentence  as  if  he  had  rounded 
it  to  the  fullest  completeness  of  expression. 

'Found  out  what?' 

'What  I  wanted.' 

'You  didn't  think  of  what  I  wanted.' 

'I  supposed  I  knew.  That  was  what  made  me  angry!  To 

find  out  that  you,  of  all  women '  He  kicked  a  stone  out  of 

the  path,  the  same  expression  on  his  face  that  he  had  worn  that 
night  when  he  stood  beside  the  bed,  saying:  'Look  here!  Have 
I  treated  you  so  badly  ? ' 

'What  was  it  made  you  angry?'  she  persisted. 

'Why,  to  find  out  that  you  should  imagine  you  could  go — for 
good. ' 

'That  surprised  you?' 

He  looked  at  her.     '  You!  with  all  your  fine  notions!' 

She  dropped  her  eyes. 

'Of  all  women,  you/    Just  as  if ' 

'Just  as  if ?' 

'Oh,  you  understand  me  well  enough.' 

'I'm  only  beginning  to,  Garth.' 


CHAPTER  III 

THEY  were  married  so  quietly,  that  a  never  dissipated  vague- 
ness existed  in  the  general  mind,  as  to  when  and  where,  they  had 
gone  through  civil  form,  or  religious  ceremony. 

***** 

It  was  a  few  minutes  before  five  o'clock,  when  Paul  Dalberg, 
F.R.S.,  etc.,  etc.,  Lecturer  on  Pathological  Chemistry,  author 
of  a  world-renowned  work  on  'Assimilation,'  turned  his  broad 
back  upon  William  George  Frederick  Cavendish  Bentinck,  and, 
in  the  act  of  lifting  Garth  Vincent's  knocker,  was  accosted  by 
another  visitor.  The  fair,  good-looking  Professor  turned,  and 
greeted  with  animation,  a  red-cheeked  girl  of  twenty-six  or  so, 
who  stood  on  the  step  breathing  quickly  after  a  brisk  walk,  and 
presenting  a  somewhat  masculine,  if  undeniably  handsome, 
effect  in  her  ruthlessly  neat  attire.  When  the  butler  opened 
the  door,  she  cut  him  short  with: 

'It  is  not  a  bit  of  use,  Staines,  to  say  they're  not  at  home.  I 
am  to  see  Dr.  Vincent  at  five.  Though  I  did  think  at  first,'  she 
added  to  her  fellow-visitor  on  their  way  to  the  drawing-room, 
'that  I  couldn't  have  read  his  note  right.  It's  such  an  unusual 
time  for  Garth's  hale  and  hearty  acquaintance  to  get  speech  of 
him.' 

'Oh,  he'd  see  you  at  any  time.  But  I  suppose  men  do  come 
home  to  tea  when  they're  just  married.' 

She  laughed:  'Is  it  observation  of  that  fact  that  has  deterred 
you ' 

'Oh,'  retorted  Dalberg,  'it  isn't  7  who  have  been  deterred.' 

'  Don't  pretend  you  ever  in  your  life  seriously  contemplated 

What's  that?' 

He  was  unfolding  a  piece  of  music,  his  eyes  still  on  the  girl: 
'Never  seriously  contemplated  tea  every  day  in  my  own  house?' 

329 


330  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Sydney  Ford  looked  at  the  music  over  his  shoulder.  'That 
would  be  to  darken  too  many  lives.  Women  have  spoiled  you 
for  woman.' 

'I've  heard  that  said  with  more  reason — 

'Impossible  for  morj  reason  to  exist.' 

' said  with  more  reason,  I  repeat,  of  your  cousin.  Yet  he 

has  succumbed.' 

'Garth  had  only  his  profession,  you  see.'  Sydney  turned 
away  and  sat  down.  'You're  protected  by  your  hobby.' 

'The  more  exposed,'  Dalberg  smiled. 

'It's  quite  true,  being  a  lover  of  good  music,  and  a  maker  of 
it,  makes  you  welcome  in  places  where  your  exalted  achievements 
in  science  wouldn't  do  much  for  you.' 

'Happily  they  aren't  mentioned — or  even  known.' 

'Oh  yes,  they're  known,  in  a  hazy  way,'  she  insisted.  'Just 
enough  to  give  piquancy  to  your  being  so  musical  and  so ' 

' so ?' 

'Oh,  being  as  ready  to  smile  with,  as  at  women.' 

'"At?"     No,  really!'  protested  the  Professor. 

'To  smile  at  us,'  the  girl  jeered  good-humouredly,  'is  almost 
the  duty  of  anybody  at  once  so  scientific  and  so  notoriously  a 
favourite  of  the  fair.' 

He  laid  his  pince-nez  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  began  seriously: 
'You  don't  understand — 

'Perfectly/  She  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about  with  a  rest- 
less air.  'Smiling  at  us  is  your  way  of  conveying:  "My  head  is 
not  turned,  you  observe."  Perhaps  a  sop  to  men  less  in  women's 
good  graces.  A  way  of  assuring  theLn' — she  caught  up  his 
pince-nez  ' and  hunched  her  shoulders,  imitating  him: — '"My 
dear  fellow,  your  loss  is,  in  my  estimation,  trifling.'"  Laughing, 
she  laid  down  the  pince-nez.  'Now,  if  it  had  been  you!  But 
can  you  imagine  anything  more  comic  than  Garth's  marrying  a 
poetess  ? ' 

Paul  Dalberg  looked  at  the  door  and  lowered  his  voice.  'I 
can  imagine  nothing  more  tragic  than  her  expecting  to  make  a 
success  of  marrying  Garth.' 

'How  long  do  you  suppose  it  will  last?' 

He  shrugged. 

'It  will  be  curious,'  she  said  reflectively,  'curious  to  watch.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  331 

A  little  pause,  and  then  she  laughed  again.     'Garth  and  a 
poetess ! ' 

'After  all,  she  isn't  a  poetess  to  hurt.' 

'  Oh,  isn't  she  ?  Well,  I'm  not  literary,  thank  God,  so  I  can't 
pronounce;  but  one  hears  that  the  critics  are  going  about  saying 
there  hasn't  been  since  Christina  Rossetti ' 

'That's   all  true,  I  believe.' 

It  was  as  if  she  made  an  effort  to  conceal  her  disappointment. 
'Oh,  really!' 

' what  I  mean  is,  she  is  first  and  foremost  a  charming 

woman.' 

'So!  She's  captured  you  already!  Well,  it's  not  a  bad 
beginning.' 

'What  do  you  make  of  her?'  asked  Garth's  only  intimate  friend 
with  a  puzzled  air. 

'I  haven't  seen  her  yet.     Apparently  you  have.' 

'Several  times,'  said  the  Professor. 

'  Several  times ! '  echoed  the  girl  quickly.  '  Why,  how  long  have 
they  been  married?' 

'Well,  they've  been  back  in  town  ten  days.' 

'I  don't  believe  Mrs.  Richard  knows  that,'  she  said  reflectively. 

'I  fear  Mrs.  Richard  knows  very  little  about  the  whole 
thing.' 

'When  I  hear  people  rail  at  Garth's  vile  temper,  I  always  think 
of  Mrs.  Richard.'  Sydney  sat  down  again.  'I  consider  his  for- 
bearance with  that  step-mother  of  his ' 

'I  don't  want  to  detract  from  his  credit,  but  there  can't  be  a 
question  of  breaking  wuli  Mrs.  Richard.' 

'You  don't  mean  because  she  was  his  father's  wife?' 

'I  mean  because  she's  a  pensioner,'  said  Garth's  friend.  'Most 
of  all  because  she's  a  person  who  has  ready  under  her  hand  a 
potent  means  of  revenge.' 

'  In  Leonard  .  .  .  ? ' 

'In  Leonard,'  repeated  Dalberg. 

'There's  no  doubt  it's  the  greatest  happiness  the  poor  child  has 
— coming  here.' 

'It  has  been  Garth's  greatest  happiness.  I've  sometimes 
watched  the  three  together.  You  could  almost  see  the  mental 
process  by  which  Garth  arrives  at  the  conclusion  that,  for  the  sake 


332  A  DARK  LANTERN 

of  that  sick  child,  he  will  moderate  his  transports  of  dislike  to  the 
mother.' 

'Moderate  them  to  a  certain  extent?'  laughed  the  girl  as  at 
some  diverting  recollection.  '  Yes,  although  there's  never  been  a 
time  when  Mrs.  Richard  approved  of  her  step-son,  she's  done  what 
she  could  to  keep  him  in  the  family.'  Miss  Ford  got  up  with  an 
air  of  impatience  to  look  at  the  clock.  'Well!  at  all  events,  the 
long  suspense  on  the  part  of  her  goggle-eyed  sisters  is  ended.' 

'Is  theirs  the  only  suspense  that's  ended?' 

'And  to  think  there's  a  popular  theory  that  jealousy  is  a  feminine 
complaint!' 

'It  is  no  news  to  you  that  I  am  jealous,'  said  Dalberg,  coming 
nearer. 

Sydney  evaded  him,  going  to  the  window  for  a  moment.  As 
she  stood  there,  looking  out:  'Why  do  you  suppose  she  married 
him?'  asked  the  girl. 

'  You  don't  think  it's  impossible  she  should  care  about  him.' 

'The  kind  of  woman  they  describe — it  doesn't  seem  very  likely. 
In  any  case  it's  a  rather  funny  ending  to  her  long  romantic  attach- 
ment to  Prince  Anton,  that  people  used  to  talk  about,'  she  turned 
back  to  the  fire  and  to  the  man  standing  there.  'Some  even 
said ' 

'Some  talked  nonsense.' 

'How  do  you  know?'  she  demanded  sharply. 

'Well,  I  have  my  view.  She's  the  sort  of  person — wait  till  you 
see  her.' 

'She  must  have  laid  herself  out!'    Sydney  smiled  significantly. 

'On  the  contrary,'  said  Professor  Paul,  'she  snubbed  me 
rather.' 

'I  take  leave  to  doubt  that  she  snubbed  Prince  Anton.  The 
standards  of  the  people  she's  lived  among  are  frankly  cynical. 
One  is  told  that  anything  (with  them)  is  possible  so  long  as  a 
certain  outward  decency  is  preserved.' 

'However  that  may  be,  I  shouldn't  call  her  typical  of  her  class.' 

'Romantic  and  that  kind  of  thing?'  asked  the  girl,  a  certain 
hardness  in  her  voice. 

'I  mean  that  if  not  virtue  (which  is  a  form  of  romance) 

'Oh,  for  shame!' 

'If  not  virtue,'  he  persisted,  'pride  keeps  that  kind  of  woman 


A  DARK  LANTERN  333 

from She  is  imaginative,  she  is  sensitive,  in  short,  she  has 

the  great  preoccupation  of  being  an  artist.' 

'Oh!'  the  scorn  of  the  athletic  young  woman  was  unconcealed, 
'you  mean  her  poems?' 

'Perhaps  I  mean  her  soul.' 

'Why,  Paul,  you  know  perfectly  well  you  don't  believe  in  any- 
thing so  old-fashioned.' 

'How  do  you  know  I'm  not  converted?'  he  laughed. 

The  pompous  butler  came  in  with  a  table,  followed  closely  by 
a  maid  with  a  tea-tray. 

'I  really  must  stay  and  see  this  woman,'  said  Sydney  mockingly, 
in  a  half  whisper. 

At  the  sound  of  Garth's  voice  outside  the  maid  started  and 
rattled  the  tea-things.  The  man-servant  dropped  his  magisterial 
air  and  ran  out.  'Yes,  sir.  Not  ten  minutes  ago,  sir,' they  heard 
him  saying,  as  Garth  came  in  with  letters  and  telegrams. 

'Oh,  you're  here  again,  are  you?'  he  said,  nodding  to  Paul. 
He  shook  hands  with  his  cousin,  and  tore  open  a  second  telegram. 

'Your  wife '  Sydney  began. 

'  She'll  be  here  in  a  minute.  I've  sent  her  to  change  her  shoes.' 
A  covert  look  passed  between  the  two  visitors. 

'Is  this  the  way  you  keep  your  appointments?'  demanded  the 
girl,  as  Vincent  tore  open  another  envelope. 

He  glanced  up.     'Why,  am  I  late?' 

'I  must  have  five  minutes'  talk  with  you,'  she  said,  going  a 
little  nearer  to  him. 

'What  about?' 

'That's  what  I've  come  to  say.' 

'Well,  I've  got  five  minutes;'  he  pulled  out  his  watch. 

'Could  I  see  you  downstairs?    I  want  to  consult  you ' 

Paul  deposited  the  music  on  the  piano,  and  took  up  his  hat. 

'What,  you  ill?'    Vincent  had  said  to  the  girl. 

'No,  it's  about  a  friend  of  mine.' 

'I  must  be  off,'  Paul  put  in.  '  I  only  came  to  leave  some  music 
for  your  wife.' 

'You  needn't  go.     She'll  be  down  in  a  minute.' 

'I  must— I'll  be  late  now.  Do  you  mind  if  I  go  this  way?' 
Paul  was  escaping  by  the  little  back  drawing-room. 

'What's  that  for?'  demanded  Vincent  as  his  friend  vanished. 


334  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Oh,  I  see.  Hear,  rather,'  as  Mrs.  Richard  Vincent's  high  voice 
broke  clearly  on  the  silence,  even  before  the  servant  opened  the 
door: 

'Mrs.  Richard  Vincent  and  Master  Leonard;'  the  dignified 
Staines  stood  aside,  as  Mrs.  Richard  burst  in,  wasp-waisted  and 
overdressed;  resolutely  juvenile  in  a  picture  hat. 

'Oh,  you're  here,'  she  said  to  Vincent,  stopping  short  in  her 
career. 

'Yes,  this  is  where  I  live.'" 

She  kissed  Sydney  with  effusion,  but  kept  her  eye  on  her  step- 
son. 'I  fully  intended  to  wait  till  you  came  in.  I've  something  to 
say  to  you.  But  I  should  be  greatly  disappointed  if  I  didn't  see 
your  wife  at  last.' 

Garth  made  no  answer,  but  as  Leonard's  chair  was  wheeled  in, 
he  went  over  and  spoke  to  the  boy,  who  looked  round  eagerly  and 
whispered  something.  Before  Garth  had  answered,  the  little 
fellow  burst  out:  'West?  Now  West's  gone,  without  taking  me  to 
my  place ! ' 

'Have  you  got  a  place  here?'  said  Garth.     'I  didn't  know  that.' 

The  boy  was  obviously  dashed,  but,  'Yes,'  he  said,  'behind  the 
tea  urn,  next  to  Katharine.' 

'Well,  as  they're  neither  of  them  here '  began  his  step- 
brother. 

'You  know,1  Leonard  appealed,  'you  know  where  she  likes  to 
have  me.'  Then,  gathering  courage:  'She'll  be  very  angry  with 
you,  if  you  don't  do  as  she  likes.' 

Garth  laughed  and  was  wheeling  the  chair  in  place,  as  Katharine 
came  in.  She  went  straight  to  Leonard,  but  Mrs.  Richard,  not 
waiting  to  be  presented,  precipitated  herself  forward.  'So  we 
meet  at  last,'  she  said  in  the  strained  London  tea-party  voice, 
and  writhing  her  neck  so  that,  despite  the  circumference  of  her  hat, 
she  could  bring  her  face  near  enough  to  the  new  member  of  the 
family  to  kiss  her  on  the  cheek.  Katharine  disengaged  herself 
without  undue  haste,  while  Garth  interrupted  the  salutation  by 
saying  to  his  wife;  'You  haven't  changed!' 

'Yes,  I  have.' 

'Let  me  see.     Put  out  your  foot.' 

'Why,  you  don't  doubt  me,  do  you?'  Katharine  laughed, 
ignoring  his  demand.  'Is  this  your  cousin?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  335 

'Yes.'  He  stared  suspiciously  down  at  Katharine's  shoes. 
'You  were  very  quick  about  it.' 

'I  get  tired  of  being  driven  upstairs  every  time  I  come  in,'  she 
returned,  still  smiling,  'so  I  keep  shoes  in  the  coat  room.'  He  sat 
down  in  a  chair  by  Leonard  as  the  tea  urn  appeared.  Above  the 
lower  interchange  between  Katharine  and  Sydney,  Mrs.  Richard's 
voice  rose  shrill:  'Well,  it's  been  the  greatest  surprise,'  she  an- 
nounced, seating  herself  and  keeping  her  prominent  eyes  on 
Katharine.  'I  suppose  you  know  we'd  all  come  to  think  of  Garth 
as  quite  hopelessly  wedded  to  bachelorhood?' 

'Yes?'  Katharine's  eyes  left  her,  passed  over  Sydney,  and  fell 
upon  Leonard.  'Has  Garth  told  you  Turk  half  killed  the  Irish 
terrier  on  Sunday?' 

'Oh,  I  was  afraid —  '  lamented  the  boy,  craning  his  head 
forward  with  excitement. 

An  animated  conversation  between  the  two,  to  which  Mrs. 
Richard  listened  with  a  frank  curiosity,  in  which  neither  Turk  nor 
terrier  could  claim  a  share.  Unblushingly  she  took  stock  of  the 
new  acquisition,  her  clothes,  her  ways,  her  looks  from  this  point 
of  view  and  from  that.  But  the  doggy  conversation  soon  palled 
on  Mrs.  Richard.  She  had  come  not  only  to  inspect  her  step- 
daughter-in-law,  but  strung  up  to  the  fearful  joy  of  speaking  her 
mind  to  Garth.  The  satisfaction  imparted  by  the  act  of  nailing  a 
thesis  on  the  temple  door  is  not  confined  to  your  religious  Re- 
former. Mrs.  Richard  held  up  the  protest  and  drove  the  first 
nail  smartly  in. 

'Of  course  you  realize,'  she  turned  briskly  to  her  step-son  with 
that  smile  that  is  no  smile,  but  a  mere  showing  of  the  teeth — 
'you  realize  that  you  have  treated  us  all  very  shabbily.' 

Katharine,  in  the  act  of  pouring  tea,  glanced  at  Garth.  He  sat 
quite  stolid  and  regarded  his  boots. 

'Oh,  I  hope  not,'  said  his  wife,  covering  the  pause  for  him, 
since  his  look  denied  the  smallest  intention  of  doing  so  for  himself. 

'It's  very  sweet  of  you  to  try  to  excuse  him,'  Mrs.  Richard  went 
on,  still  goggling  and  smiling  in  that  inimical  way  of  hers.  '  But 
you  must  be  intensely  conscious  of  what  I  mean;  even  if  it's  too 
much  for  the  masculine  mind.' 

The  owner  of  that  impediment  to  clear  perception  leaned  on 
the  sofa  arm  and  spoke  sotto  voce  to  Sydney.  Katharine,  so  far 


336  A  DARK  LANTERN 

from  justifying  expectation  by  seeming  '  intensely  conscious,'  wore 
a  look  of  vague  surprise. 

'But  of  course  you've  found  out  how  Garth  loves  making  a 
mystery,'  said  Mrs.  Richard. 

'Does  he?     Oh  dear!' 

'  Doesn't  he  ? '  Mrs.  Richard  appealed  to  Sydney.  That  young 
lady,  not  waiting  for  her  tea,  had  begun  on  bread-and-butter.  It 
struck  Katharine  there  was  something  wonderfully  vigorous, 
'athletic'  even,  in  the  way  she  ate  it.  'Just  wait,'  pursued  Mrs. 
Richard  with  a  humorous  air.  'It's  nice  of  us  to  forewarn  you, 
isn't  it,  Sydney?  Oh,  he  carries  it  into  the  simplest  things. 
You'll  be  out  walking  with  him.  He  speaks  to  a  man.  "Who 
was  that?"  you  say — quite  innocently.'  She  caricatured  Garth's 
frown:  "'A  friend  of  mine."  "What's  his  name?"  "You 
wouldn't  know  it."  "Not  if  I  never  hear  it,  of  course."  "You 
won't  hear  it." — that's  the  kind  of  thing,  isn't  it,  Sydney?' 

'I'm  surprised  at  you,  Garth.'  Katharine  laughed  a  little 
wickedly. 

'Paul  Dalberg  says — have  you  seen  Paul?'  demanded  Mrs. 
Richard. 

'He  couldn't  wait,'  Garth  explained  shortly  to  his  wife. 

'Well,  you  will  see  him,'  Mrs.  Richard  assured  her.  'He's  the 
one  human  being  Garth  never  gets  tired  of.  I  wonder  how  you'll 
like  him.  He  says  that  nobody  who  knows  Garth  had  any  right 
to  be  amazed.  "It's  just  like  him,"  he  says,  and  if  anybody 
understands  Garth  I  suppose  it's  Paul  Dalberg.  But,'  she 
dropped  the  humorous  air,  'where  it's  a  question  of  marriage — 
and  a  marriage,  I  may  say,  that  he  ought  to  be  proud  of — it's 
a  different  matter.  It  isn't  fair  to  his  wife.' 

'Oh,  his  wife '  began  that  lady  light-heartedly. 

But  she  was  interrupted.  'As  I  said  to  you  in  my  letter,  you 
must  have  thought  it  very  singular  and  uncordial,  that  your 
husband's  friends  made  no  sign.  But  how  could  we?' 

'I  didn't  misunderstand.' 

'I  assure  you  we  kjiew  nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  Did  we, 
Syd?' 

'No.' 

Leonard  looked  round  the  urn  with  a  superior  little  air.  '/ 
knew.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  337 

'Fancy/  Mrs.  Richard  was  growing  more  excited,  'fancy  his 
not  even ' 

Garth  jumped  up,  watch  in  hand,  and  asked  about  the  hunting 
accident  Sydney  had  had  at  Christmas. 

As  Mrs.  Richard  was  about  to  resume,  Katharine  said  with 
a  conciliatory  air:  'Yes,  Garth  is  rather  uncommunicative,  as 
you  say.' 

'Uncommunicative!  The  Vincents,'  Mrs.  Richard  paused  to 
take  in  the  group,  Garth,  Leonard,  and  Sydney,  '  are  every  one  of 
them  as  secretive  as  the  Crawleys  are  frank.' 

'The  Crawleys?' 

'You  didn't  know  I  was  a  Crawley?' 

'I  don't  think — Garth  is,  as  you  say,  rather  uncommunicative.' 

'Seriously,'  Mrs.  Richard  appealed  through  his  back  to  the 
better  nature  of  the  bridegroom,  'you  can't  imagine  how  awk- 
ward all  this  unnecessary  secrecy  has  made  it  for  us.'  Garth 
turned  half  round,  frowning.  Mrs.  Richard  rushed  on  excitedly: 
'Why  for  weeks,  ever  since  it  came  out  in  fact — 

'A  fortnight  ago,'  Sydney  put  in  calmly. 

' I've  been  bombarded  with  questions!  Nobody  would  have 

believed,  I  didn't  know  the  answer  to  a  single  one  of  them.' 

'No,'  muttered  Garth  under  his  breath. 

'You  can't  think  what  I  felt  like  at  the  big  Bazaar  on  Tuesday,' 
Mrs.  Richard  turned  to  Katharine  for  sympathy, — 'under  Royal 
Patronage,  you  know.  My  sisters  and  I  had  such  a  pretty  stall 
with  Lady  O'Brian — Irish  Industries,  you  know,  great  success. 
I'm  going  on  there  this  afternoon  to  look  over  our  bills  and 
accounts — a  dear  person,  Mora  O'Brian:  you  must  know  her. 
But  fancy  all  those  people  crowding  round  me  at  the  Bazaar  asking 
for  particulars.  Where  the  marriage  had  taken  place  and  all  that.' 

Garth  wheeled  suddenly  upon  her.     'Didn't  you  tell  them?' 

Mrs.  Richard  gaped.     'How  could  I?' 

'Why  not?' 

'Did  you  think  you'd  told  us?  Never  once!  You're  the 
oddest  creature!  He'll  be  saying  next  that  he  invited  us  to  the 
wedding,'  she  said  to  Sydney. 

'I'd  never  go  so  far  as  that,'  remarked  her  step-son. 

'What/' 

'Marriage  should  be  private.' 

23 


538  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Oh,  nonsense!'  Mrs.  Richard  was  still  bewildered  by  the 
audacity  of  his  first  question.  'The  fact  is,  you  impose  on  my 
sense  of  family  obligation.  You  know  you  could  depend  on  my 
not  giving  you  away  to  all  those  women.' 

Garth's  angry  eyes  leaped  at  her.     '  Give  me  away  ? ' 

'Naturally  I  didn't  admit  publicly  how  badly  you've  treated  us 
all.  And  when  everybody  asked,  "Where  were  they  married?" 
I  said,  "Oh,  Ireland,  of  course."' 

'How  did  you  know?'  said  Garth,  almost  pleasantly. 

'Then  I  was  right!'  Mrs.  Richard  triumphed.  'Well,  I  con- 
sider it  a  stroke  of  genius  on  my  part.'  Garth  resumed  his  talk 
with  Sydney,  but  it  was  plain  that  he  kept  an  eye,  if  not  an  ear, 
for  Mrs.  Richard.  She  was  saying  with  animation  to  Katharine: 
'No,  it  wasn't,  as  I  see  you're  thinking,  our  "Industries"  that  put 
Ireland  in  my  head.  Everybody  knew  you'd  been  out  of  England. 
Some  said  visiting  relations.  Your  father's  people  I  knew  came 
from  County  Wicklow.' 

'Yes.' 

'I  remember  that  because  a  cousin  of  mine  married  a  cousin 
of  yours.' 

'Oh,  who  was  that?' 

'Mabel  Denison,  Captain  Dereham  White's  second  wife.' 

'I  don't  think  I  ever ' 

'But  I'm  sure  you  agree  it  was  very  extraordinary  of  Garth 

'I  do  agree  that  he's  extraordinary.' 

Sydney  lowered  her  voice:  'Can't  I  see  you  downstairs?' 

'You  can  tell  me  here  what  it  is.'  He  shot  a  watchful  glance 
over  his  shoulder  towards  Mrs.  Richard,  who  was  saying: 

'At  our  M.A.B.Y.S.  Committee  meeting  this  very  morning  the 
Duchess  of  Worcester  asked  me  how  long  you'd  been  married.' 

'Oh,  did  she?'  responded  Katharine.  'She's  rather  an  old 
friend  of  mine.  So  you  see,  Mrs.  Vincent — 

'You  must  call  me  Nelly.     Everybody  calls  me  Nelly.' 

'Since  my  old  friends  were  not  told,  you  see  you  were  not  the 
only  one  who ' 

'The  Duchess  isn't  in  the  family  after  all,'  observed  Mrs. 
Richard  with  dignity,  as  Garth  half  turned  again,  impatience 
darkening  every  feature.  '  It  was  so  very  awkward  being  asked 


A  DARK  LANTERN  339 

that,  by  the  Duchess,  before  the  whole  Committee.  What  could 
I  say?  /  didn't  know.' 

A  slight  pause,  and  then:  'You  shouldn't  let  a  little  thing  like 
that  stand  in  your  way,'  said  Garth  at  his  deadliest. 

'Well,  I  didn't!  How  long  have  they  been  married?'  said  I. 
'Oh,  for  some  time.' 

'Right  again!  You're  a  clever  woman  after  all,'  he  turned  to 
Sydney  once  more. 

'After  all!' 

'While  I  think  of  it,'  he  threw  over  his  shoulder,  'if  you  and 
Leonard  care  to  go  down  to  Winston,  you  can  have  the  house  for 
July.  Yes,  go  on,'  he  said  to  Sydney. 

'Oh — thanks,'  Mrs.  Richard  pulled  herself  together,  'August 
would  suit  us  better.' 

'No,'  Garth  burst  out  angrily,  drawing  away  from  Sydney.  'I 
told  your  friend,  since  she  didn't  like  my  treatment,  she  needn't 
send  for  me  again.' 

'It  isn't  that  she  doesn't  like — it's  only  that  you — you  shatter 
her  nerves.  And  she's  afraid  she's  going  to  die.' 

'Tell  her  from  me  she'll  have  no  such  luck.' 

'Garth!' 

'All  women  ought  to  die  at  thirty-five.' 

'Well,  they  do  their  best.'  Mrs.  Richard  tossed  her  head  and 
the  plumes  on  her  great  hat  waved.  '  It's  about  the  age  they  call 
in  the  doctor.' 

'Nonsense,'  said  Sydney.  'Why  thirty-five  is  just  the  time  the 
modern  woman  begins  to  think  seriously  of  marriage.' 

'I  wouldn't  advise  you  to  put  it  off  so  long,'  said  Garth. 

'I'd  begun  to  think  I  was  never  to  see  Winston  again.'  Mrs. 
Richard  accepted  Katharine's  tea.  '  But  now  that  you've  under- 
taken this  gentleman — 

' Oh,  but  I  haven't!    It's  the  other  way  about.' 

Garth  looked  at  his  watch.  'Do  you  want  a  lift?'  he  said  to 
his  step-mother.  'I'm  going  past  the  O'Brians.' 

'No,  thank  you,'  began  Mrs.  Richard  and  then  hesitated.  It 
was  an  unheard  of  thing  for  Garth  to  be  so  civil.  Too  much  of 
material  consequence  depended  upon  his  good-will,  to  sacrifice 
it  in  any  cause  less  dear  than  that  of  'just  giving  him  a  piece  of 
my  mind.' 


340  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'You  will  leave  Leonard,'  Katharine  was  saying,  seeming  to 
consider  Garth's  proposal  accepted. 

'No,  he  has  a  lesson  at '  Mrs.  Richard  interrupted  her- 
self with  her  high  mirthless  laugh:  'Really  if  either  your  wife 

or  I  were  suspicious  we  might  almost  think '  Again  she 

hesitated. 

'I  understood  you  to  say  you  were  going  to  the  O'Brians,'  said 
Vincent.  Under  his  impatience  was  a  dogged  patience  that  made 
his  wife  wonder.  In  spite  of  the  immediate  deterioration  of  his 
manners  under  the  step-motherly  eye,  he  had  already  endured 
much,  and  in  spite  of  his  half-past  five  engagement,  here  he  still 
was,  listening  to  Mrs.  Richard's: 

'In  the  height  of  the  season  you  suggest  I  should  go  to  the 
country,  and  in  the  middle  of  my  first  visit,  you  want  to  take  me 
to  the  O'Brians'.' 

They  quietly  measured  swords.  She  rose  a  little  nervously,  as 
West  came  in. 

'After  all  I  shall  see  you  often,'  she  assured  Katharine,  'and 
I  will  confide  to  you  that  the  offer  of  a  lift  from  Garth  is  an  un- 
precedented grace.'  She  looked  round  for  her  parasol.  'Who 
are  you  going  to  see  at  Chelsea  ? ' 

'A  man.' 

'What  did  I  tell  you?  Well,  as  I'm  a  poor  miserable  creature 
without  a  carriage — you  don't  know  anything  about  it,  of  course, 
but  for  a  woman  to  go  about  London  as  much  as  I  have  to,  with- 
out a  carriage ' 

The  door  opened  and  the  servant  announced  'Lord  Peter- 
borough.' 

'Bertie!  I  am  glad.'  Katharine  had  greeted  her  old  ally  with 
enthusiasm,  before  she  took  in  the  fact  that  he  was  slowly  followed 
into  the  room  by  Falconbridge.  She  was  in  the  act  of  introducing 
him  to  her  husband,  when  she  saw  they  already  knew  one  another, 
and  was  conscious  of  a  vague  sense  of  surprise,  of  incongruity. 

'I  regard  this  as  an  indiscretion,'  Lord  Falconbridge  began  in 
his  deliberate  way.  'You  must  blame  Amherst.' 

'Blame?'  exclaimed  Katharine,  'I  applaud  him.* 

In  the  general  hum  of  conversation  Mrs.  Richard  resumed  her 
seat  with  an  air  of  fixed  purpose.  Without  introduction  she  knew 
who  the  elder  man  must  be.  Photographs  and  cartoons  had  made 


A  DARK  LANTERN  34I 

his  face  public  property.  Sydney,  after  saying  good-bye  hurriedly 
to  Katharine,  lingered  at  the  door  long  enough  to  see  Garth  turn 
away  from  the  new  arrivals,  and  say  to  Mrs.  Richard:  '  I'm  going.' 

'Oh,  are  you?     Good-bye  then.' 

'You're  not  coming!' 

'I  believe  I  won't,  after  all,  thank  you  just  the  same.  It  was 
sweet  of  you  to ' 

Anything  less  sweet  than  Garth  were  difficult  to  imagine,  as  he 
said  significantly:  'Well,  you  won't  be  asked  again.' 

'Why  not?' 

'I  don't  like  people  with  minds  like  weathercocks.' 

'I  believe  you  want  to  make  me  a  scene.'  Mrs.  Richard  un- 
covered her  teeth. 

As  Garth  passed  Leonard,  the  boy  put  out  a  detaining  hand, 
although  Bertie  was  making  friends  with  him.  Mrs.  Richard  did 
not  at  all  like  the  look  in  her  step-son's  face.  In  two  seconds 
she  had  weighed  the  matter.  Lord  Falconbridge  must  be  on 
rather  intimate  terms  to  stroll  in,  unasked,  in  this  informal  way. 
He  would  be  here  often.  But  if  that  prickly  customer,  her  step- 
son, were  rubbed  too  violently  the  wrong  way — irritating  animal! 
Unwilling  Mrs.  Richard  found  her  feet.  'Of  course  I'm  com- 
ing,' she  said  with  an  air  of  forced  amusement.  'I  only  wanted 
to  see  what  sort  of  t&te  you'd  make.'  She  laughed  vivaciously. 
'I  suppose  you'll  let  me  say  au  revoir  to  your  wife,'  and  she  joined 
the  others,  who  were  talking  rather  low,  as  it  seemed  to  a  woman 
whose  frankness  was  apt  to  take  the  form  of  screaming.  Kath- 
arine's face  was  radiant  with  happiness,  and  Lord  Falconbridge 
was  looking  at  Katharine  in  a  way 'Well I'  mentally  ejac- 
ulated Mrs.  Richard, — '  and  his  wife  not  dead  six  months  I '  Then 
aloud: 

'I  must  make  up  another  time  for  the  shortness  of  this ' 

She  stopped,  annoyed  at  Katharine's  obliviousness.  'I'm  sorry 
to  interrupt  this  engrossing  conversation,  but  Garth  positively 
insists  on  carrying  me  off  with  him.' 

For  one  instant  Lord  Falconbridge  stared  at  her  rather  rudely, 
and  pointedly  turned  away.  He  stood  talking  to  Garth  while  the 
two  women  made  their  adieux. 

'Now,  when  are  you  coming  to  dine  with  me?'  demanded 
Mrs.  Richard. 


342  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'I  don't  know  what  our  plans  are.  I'll  speak  to  Garth,  and 
let  you  know.' 

'Speak  to  him  now.' 

'Oh,  he's  talking  to I'll  telephone  you  in  the  morning.' 

'No  time  like  the  present.  Garth!'  He  raised  his  eyes. 
'What  night  this  week  will  you  and  Katharine  come  to  dine?' 

'We  can't  this  week.' 

'What's  your  first  free  evening?' 

'Haven't  any  free  evenings.' 

'Oh,  nonsense '  Then  aside  to  Katharine  as  Garth  turned 

his  back  and  listened  attentively  to  Falconbridge,  'If  that  high 
and  mighty  person  has  come  to  talk  privately,  why  wasn't  he 
taken  to  the  consulting-room?' 

Katharine  ignored  that.  'I  knew  Garth  had  a  good  many 
engagements  just  now.  But  later ' 

'Come  without  him!'  suggested  Mrs.  Richard  suddenly. 
'That'll  be  even  better.  We'll  have  a  cosy  little  dinner  all  by 
ourselves.' 

'Thank  you,  I  don't  think '  She  looked  towards  her 

husband. 

'Oh,  you'll  soon  see  you'll  have  to  spend  a  great  deal  of  your 
time  alone  if  you  wait  for  Garth.  "No  free  evening"  is  an 
old  cry.' 

'  Just  now — it  seems  to  be  the  time  of  year  that  all  the  scientific 
bodies  come  to  London — 

Mrs.  Richard  laughed  maliciously.  'Is  that  what  he  tells 
you?' 

Again  Katharine  ignored  the  interruption. — '  Lectures,  receptions 
to  foreign  celebrities,  the  dinner  of  the  Pathological  Society — 

'Oh  yes.  As  my  youngest  sister  used  to  say,  "Society  of  some 
sort,  no  doubt."  Muriel  is  great  fun.  You  must  know  Muriel. 
Come  and  dine  with  us  quietly  to-morrow.'  As  Katharine  was 
about  to  speak:  'You'll  be  all  alone.  I  know  you  will.' 

'Alone?    No,  I— 

Mrs.  Richard  raised  her  voice.  'Isn't  it  to-morrow.  Garth, 
that  you  make  your  address  before  the  Royal ?' 

He  looked  round  and  merely  nodded. 

'That's  all  right,  then!  Katharine's  coming  to  dine  with 
Muriel  and  me.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  343 

'No,  I'm  going  to  hear  the  address!' 

'  Fancy  you  caring —        Thursday,  then!' 

'We're  dining  that  night,'  said  Garth,  'with  the »  Al- 
though she  waited,  he  did  not  finish. 

'Who  with?' 

But  again  he  seemed  to  give  his  whole  mind  to  Lord  Falcon- 
bridge. 

'Well,  Friday,'  said  Mrs.  Richard,  in  a  half -whisper.  But  it 
only  served  to  show  how  little  of  the  talk  not  meant  for  him  Garth 
was  missing. 

'She  can't  be  out  every  night.' 

'Why  not?' 

'She  has  to  take  care  of  her  health.' 

Lord  Falconbridge  discreetly  joined  Bertie,  and  made  acquaint- 
ance with  Leonard. 

'Really,  Garth,  you  can't  think  it  would  overfatigue  her  just  to 
dine  quietly  round  the  corner.' 

'She  won't  dine  anywhere  without  me.  Good-bye;'  he  went 
over  to  the  two  men  by  Leonard's  chair,  but  stood  a  moment 
longer,  talking. 

A  gleam  of  suspicion  had  crossed  the  dislike  in  Mrs.  Richard's 
face.  '  Not  dine  without  him ! '  she  said,  in  an  outraged  undertone. 
'Does  he  imagine  you're  going  to  stand  that?' 

Katharine  smiled.     'I  wouldn't  be  surprised.' 

'  Well,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I  wouldn't  lose  any  time  in  wak- 
ing him  from  that  rosy  dream.  To  expect  a  woman  like  you 
to  sit  at  home  while  he  runs  about,  paying  visits  all  day,  and 
dining  at  night  with  his 

'Not  every  night,'  said  Katharine,  with  an  obvious  effort  after 
civility. 

Mrs.  Richard,  pinching  her  lips,  sent  her  hard  glance  across 
the  room  to  her  step-son.  'You  can't  expect  to  make  a 
domestic  animal  all  at  once  out  of  a  man  who's  led  the  life 
Garth  has.' 

For  the  first  time  Katharine  dropped  her  tolerant  manner.  'I 
don't  understand  you.' 

Mrs.  Richard  caught  herself  up.  'Oh,  of  course,  it  will  be 
different  now — to  a  great  extent.  We  are  all  so  delighted  to  have 
him  married.  And  not  married  to  ...  the  wrong  person.' 


344  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'That,'  returned  Katharine  coldly,  'is  always  a  subject  for 
congratulation.' 

'  I  assure  you  we've  had  frights,  my  dear ! '  Mrs.  Richard  spoke 
hurriedly,  confidentially.  'I  consider  him  in  great  luck;  and  I 
shan't  mind  saying  as  much  to  him.  Everybody  else  has  always 
been  afraid  of  Garth.  He  hears  the  truth  from  me.  Oh,  you'll 
find  me  the  frankest  person  of  your  acquaintance.' 

Bertie  had  left  the  others,  and  came  strolling  over  to  Katha- 
rine. 'I  suppose  it's  through  the  Princess  Isabella.' 

'I  hadn't  heard  that  Garth  knew  her  particularly,'  replied 
Katharine  off  her  guard. 

'  You've  always  been  rather  a  favourite  in  that  quarter.' 

'  You  don't  think  that  sort  of  thing  counts  ? ' 

'Oh,  she's  an  accomplished  wire-puller,  is  the  Princess.  If 
there  are  honours  going,  she  sees  no  reason  why  they  shouldn't 
be  conducted  into  channels  she  has  made.' 

'You  are  greatly  mistaken,'  said  Katharine  quickly,  'if  you 
think  I  have  anything  to  do ' 

'  Didn't  she  send  for  you  the  other  day  ? ' 

'The  Princess  Isabella  did?'  asked  Mrs.  Richard. 

'  She  wrote  to  me  about  some  poems  of  mine,  and  said  I  might 
come ' 

'Exactly.    You  vividly  revived  an  old  interest,  and  fired  her 

'You  forget,'  returned  Katharine,  'he  saved  Prince  Charles's 
life.' 

'Why,  that  was  Garth,'  said  Mrs.  Richard,  who  had  been 
goggling  from  one  to  the  other  with  speechless  astonishment. 

'  Surely  his  record  is  quite  enough  to  account  for '  Katharine 

lowered  her  voice.  'I  hope  no  one  will  be  so  mistaken  as  to 
suggest  that  I — that  there's  any  motive  behind  the  proposal 
other  than  Garth's  own  deserts.  He  wouid  certainly  refuse  the 
knighthood  if ' 

Mrs.  Richard  gasped.     'What!' 

'Would  he?'  inquired  Bertie,  with  polite  incredulity. 

'Beyond  any  shadow  of  doubt,'  said  Katharine  quickly. 

'A  knighthood!'  breathed  Mrs.  Richard. 

'Sh!  Yes.  It  mustn't  be  spoken  of  just  yet.  Oh,  are  you 
going?  Good-bye.'  Katharine  shook  hands  with  Bertie  much 


A  DARK  LANTERN  345 

more  coolly  than  she  had  greeted  him,  looked  up,  and  saw  her 
husband  pausing  at  the  door  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  her.  She 
went  to  him.  'You  want  to  speak  to  me?' — although  he  had 
uttered  no  syllable.  What  he  said  now  was  in  an  undertone. 
Very  low  she  answered,  'You  think  only  of  the  child.' 

'No,  I  don't,'  he  said.  Then  over  Katharine's  head  to  Mrs. 
Richard,  still  making  her  adieux:  'If  you're  coming,  come,'  and 
he  was  gone. 

'My  dear  Garth  1'  Mrs.  Richard  called  after  him.  'Coming? 
Of  course!  Leonard  darling,  West  is  waiting.  Good-bye!'  She 
made  for  the  door  with  more  trepidation  than  pleasure.  But 
whatever  lay  before  her  in  this  tete-h-tete,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  sought  by  her  step-son,  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that 
she  was  not  departing  without  having  planted  her  sting.  She 
had  only  to  look  at  the  face  Katharine  bent  over  Leonard  to  feel 
assured  of  that.  Well,  it  was  far  better  not  to  start  with  illusions. 
'Good-bye,  my  dear!' 

'Shall  we  be  toddling?'  Bertie  said  to  Falconbridge. 

'You  haven't  had  much  talk  with ' 

'Oh,  she  has  only  one  topic  now.' 

Bertie  walked  beside  Leonard's  chair  as  West  wheeled  the 
boy  out. 

'Well,  having  offered  you  my  congratulations '  began 

Falconbridge. 

'No — don't  go — don't.  I  must  have  someone  to  talk  to.  I 
feel  rather  wrought  up.  Your  news,  I  suppose.  Sit  here.' 
Katharine  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  covered  her  face  for  the 
briefest  moment  with  her  hands.  When  they  fell,  he  saw  to  his 
surprise  that  she  was  laughing.  'Wasn't  Mrs.  Richard  appall- 
ing?' 

'H'm.' 

Her  laughter  was  low  but  a  trifle  hysterical.  'I  oughtn't  to 
say  that — but  Garth  himself  detests  her.  He  endures  her  only 
on  poor  little  Leonard's  account.' 

'The  boy?' 

Katharine  nodded.     'He's  a  darling.' 

'I  perceive,'  said  Lord  Falconbridge  with  a  little  smile,  'that 
the  least  patient  person  of  my  acquaintance  grows  tolerant.' 

Katharine  was  suddenly  grave.     'When  people  don't  marry 


346  A  DARK  LANTERN 

as  boy  and  girl,  there  is — in  the  woman  at  least — a  wish  first  of 
all  to  understand  that  past  she  hasn't  had  a  share  in — understand 
it  before — she  rejects  it.' 

'Ah.1 

'You  say  that  as  if  you  were  surprised  I  should  think  I  could 
reject ' 

'If  I  am  surprised,  it  is  rather  that  you  should  hope  to  under- 
stand.' 

She  laughed  again.     'Oh,  it  isn't  as  different  as  all  that.' 

'Isn't  it?' 

'  Let  us  forget  about '  she  began  impulsively,  with  a  motion 

of  her  hand  towards  the  door.  '  Let  us  talk  about  the  things  we 
used  to.' 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHAT  followed,  the  more  took  Katharine  by  surprise,  in  that 
Vincent  seemed  willing  to  see  her  friends  about  her  in  Cavendish 
Square,  and  was  ever  ready,  in  spite  of  the  enormous  labour  of 
his  professional  life,  to  go  about  with  his  wife  in  the  evening. 
In  his  undemonstrative  fashion,  he  showed  that  he  was  gratified 
by  the  admiration  that  followed  in  her  wake.  He  observed  her 
looks  narrowly,  and  even,  to  Katharine's  merriment,  developed 
views  about  her  frocks. 

But  he  was  not  so  complaisant  when,  as  the  season  went  on, 
her  engagements  multiplied  and  overlapped.  Willing  as  he 
was,  apparently,  to  see  Katharine  amuse  herself,  he  resented 
any  evidence  of  her  'overdoing' — resented  it  with  a  vigour  to 
which  it  took  his  wife  some  time  to  adapt  herself.  He  thought 
equally  little  of  making  her  give  up  the  most  brilliant  political 
party  of  the  season,  or  a  quiet  tete-h-tete  with  a  friend,  if  Katharine 
dared  show  a  face  too  pale  to  please  him.  Any  gratitude  he  may 
have  felt  to  the  Princess  Isabella  did  not  prevent  him  from  tele- 
phoning to  the  palace,  without  even  consulting  Katharine,  to  say 
that  his  wife  was  tired,  and  would  not  be  coming  to  'dine  quietly' 
that  night  with  Her  Royal  Highness.  Katharine  perforce  found 
herself  'husbanding'  her  strength  (as  she  laughingly  emphasized 
her  new  prudence),  keeping  her  best  looks  for  the  eyes  that  were 
not  to  be  cajoled. 

It's  for  the  sake  of  the  child  that  is  coming,  she  would  think, 
not  without  a  stirring  of  jealousy. 

If  Vincent  was,  as  his  wife  flattered  herself,  softened,  human- 
ized, no  change  wrought  in  him  prevented  his  falling,  now  and 
then,  into  one  of  those  old  black  moods  of  surly  silence,  or  his 
being  swept  from  time  to  time  by  some  sudden  gust  of  rage. 

347 


348  A  DARK  LANTERN 

But  those  who  suffered  in  these  new  days  were  his  servants,  his 
relations,  patients,  friends.  To  Katharine  he  was  singularly 
gentle. 

'The  child!  It's  all  for  the  child,'  she  would  say  to  her  un- 
grateful heart, — 'he  was  never  so  good  to  me  before.' 

She  had  left  London  gladly,  and  had  not  gone  back  till  her 
little  son  was  two  months  old.  Even  then,  she  waited  for  Vin- 
cent's prompting:  'It's  no  kind  of  life,'  he  grumbled.  'You  here 
and  I  three-quarters  of  the  time  alone  in  London.'  The  speech 
pleased  her,  though  she  had  laughed  and  said:  'We  like  you 
better  in  the  country,  the  baby  and  I,'  as  if  the  child  had  had 
conscious  experience  of  those  few  weeks  in  the  summer. 

Cavendish  Square  meant  not  only  Mrs.  Richard  and  the 
'awful  sisters,'  the  Past  was  there. 

The  coming  of  the  child  and  the  happiness  he  brought,  had 
sent  all  shadows  flying.  But  in  her  reluctant  memory  they 
gathered  thick  in  Cavendish  Square.  All  those  unrecorded  and 
never-named  days,  months,  years,  when  she  was  not  in  the  life 
that  she  longed  to  feel  was  undividedly  hers. 

'One  day,  that  too,'  she  promised  herself.  But  only  through 
Garth  must  the  possession  come — not  through  any  other.  Yet 
it  seemed  as  if  'others'  were  for  ever  waiting  ready  to  forestall 
him — to  rob  her  of  the  voluntary  confidence,  that  she  said  to  her- 
self would  be  the  final  seal  to  union  and  to  happiness. 

Welcome  as  Katharine  had  made  Paul  Dalberg  at  all  times, 
she  felt  herself  to  be  too  much  under  the  magnifying  glass  in  his 
presence,  to  be  at  ease  with  him.  She  knew,  as  the  sensitive 
creature  will,  'he  behaves  to  me  as  if  I  were  someone  else.' 
Plainly,  he  did  not  accept  her  at  face  value.  Not  all  to  himself 
had  he  kept  his  silent  speculation:  'it  isn't  probable  she  really 
cares  about  Garth;  why  does  she  pretend  so  furiously?' 

In  that  few  weeks'  experience  in  the  summer,  she  had  learned 
to  be  sorry  when  Paul  appeared  during  Mrs.  Richard's  visits. 
His  being  there  seemed  to  accentuate  the  bitter  taste  those  visits 
left  behind.  The  air  of  staid  old  Cavendish  Square  seemed  to 
go  to  the  lady's  head.  At  '  my  step-son  Sir  Garth  Vincent's '  she 
was  even  more  vivacious  than  elsewhere,  and  gave  away  so  many 
pieces  of  her  mind,  that  no  after  shortcoming  in  intelligence 
could  have  surprised  any  witness  of  her  prodigality.  If  Katharine 


A  DARK    LANTERN  349 

baffled,  piqued  Paul  Dalberg,  not  so  Mrs.  Richard,  who  cer- 
tainly did  all  in  her  power  to  act  as  a  corrective  to  Katharine's 
supposed  subtlety.  Mrs.  Richard's  conception  of  'frankness' 
involved  an  unflinching  pointing  out  of  her  step-son's  short- 
comings to  his  wife  and  to  his  closest  friend;  partly  out  of  curi- 
osity to  see  how  this  unknown  quantity  'the  wife,'  would  meet 
these  strictures,  partly  out  of  a  need  Mrs.  Richard  felt  herself 
to  be  under  to  show  that  she  was  not  going  to  be  dazzled  by 
Garth's  distinction,  any  more  than  she  had  been  awed  all  these 
years  by  his  overbearing  ways. 

In  a  feeble,  half-laughing  way,  Dalberg  would  excuse  the 
criminal,  or  sympathetically  shake  his  big  head  over  Garth's 
enormities. 

Now,  on  the  eve  of  Katharine's  return  to  town,  things  that 
she  had  been  glad  to  forget  came  back  to  her.  She  heard  again 
Mrs.  Richard's  favourite  formula,  uttered  with  a  modest  air, 
as  of  one  not  fully  comprehending  her  own  virtues:  'I  dare  say 
it's  a  fault,  but  I  always  say  what  I  think,  and  quite  between 
ourselves ' 

Katharine  knew  that,  what  perhaps  most  disconcerted  Mrs. 
Richard,  was  to  find  that  Garth's  wife  did  not  even  put  herself 
to  the  trouble  of  defending  him,  unless  Leonard  happened  to  be 
present.  She  had  a  disarming  way  of  smilingly  admitting  the 
most  damaging  things.  Had  Mrs.  Richard  in  an  outburst  of 
temper  called  him  'a  rough  creature':  'Haven't  you  had  enough 
of  the ' '  smooth  "  ? '  the  rough  creature's  wife  would  say.  '  /  have ! ' 

Was  he  called  selfish?  'I  like  selfish  people,'  Katharine 
would  answer.  'They're  the  only  ones  who  aren't  hypocrites.' 
And  when  the  smoke  had  cleared  away,  she  would  still  be  found, 
laughingly  insisting:  'Nothing  would  so  disturb  me  as  having  to 
live  with  a  philanthropist — it  would  be  almost  as  uncomfortable 
as  being  married  to  a  martyr.' 

Dalberg  watched  with  interest  her  success  in  passing  over, 
with  apparent  calm  good-temper,  even  Mrs.  Richard's  references 
to  'the  racketty  life  Garth  led  for  years.'  On  the  first  occasion 
only,  Katharine  had  looked  significantly  from  the  lady  to  the 
other  guest.  But  Mrs.  Richard  tossed  her  big  hat:  '  Oh,  I  haven't 
forgotten  Paul  Dalberg.  We  none  of  us  mind  him,  do  we, 
Paul?' 


350  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'It  is  my  despair,'  he  had  said  with  mock  gravity,  'that  you 
none  of  you  do.' 

And  Mrs.  Richard  had  added:  'You  don't  suppose  we  can 
tell  Garth's  very  oldest  friend  anything,  do  you?' 

These  hints,  it  is  "but  fair  to  say,  were  usually  thrown  out 
only  after  some  collision  with  her  step-son,  which  had  brought 
into  lurid  relief  his  arch  offence:  restriction  upon  intercourse 
between  Mrs.  Richard  and  his  wife. 

'Now  why  can't  you  come,  Katharine?  It's  very  awkward 
for  me.  I  promised  Lady  O 'Brian.  Why  is  Garth  so  deter- 
mined to  keep  you  and  me  apart?' 

'That  you  are  here  to  say  so  doesn't  look  much  like ' 

'Now  you  are  making  phrases.     Why  does  he  do  it,  Paul?' 

'It  would  require  great  concentration  to  discover,'  the  Pro- 
fessor had  replied. 

'I  should  think  he  might  know  by  this  time  I  was  to  be  trusted. 
Now  did  I  ever  tell  anything  I  oughtn't  ? '  she  inquired  of  Katha- 
rine with  a  deliberately  tricksy  air. 

'I'm  sure  I  don't  know.' 

'Yes,  you  do.     You  must  admit  I've  been  most  discreet.' 

'Discretion  is  well  known  to  be  your  leading  characteristic,' 
observed  Dalberg. 

'Oh,  it's  all  very  well  to  chaff,'  she  dropped  her  archness. 
'But  Garth's  suspiciousness  does  sometimes  irritate  me  to  the 

point  of '  She  seemed  forced  to  contemplate  tapping  a 

whole  furnace-full  of  blazing  indiscretions.  But  before  Mrs. 
Richard  knew  it,  Katharine  had  changed  the  subject  as  lightly 
as  firmly. 

On  occasion,  when  he  had  outstayed  Mrs.  Richard,  Paul 
would  be  aware  that  his  friend's  wife,  when  at  last  they  were 
alone,  betrayed  something  of  the  fatigue  of  one  who  has  been 
gay  and  indifferent  at  some  cost  to  herself.  And  it  was  at  such 
times  that  he  found  her  most  sympathetic — and  most  perplexing. 
Once  or  twice  he  had  permitted  himself  to  manifest  something 
of  his  approval  of  the  way  she  both  bore  with,  and  defended  her- 
self against  Mrs.  Richard.  As  if  to  heal  the  wound  he  knew 
was  there,  though  he  was  not  permitted  to  see  it,  he  would  speak 
of  the  long  close  friendship  that  had  existed  between  him  and 
Vincent,  and  how  Garth  was  a  man  that  few  women  (no  woman 


A  DARK  LANTERN  351 

he  would  have  said,  two  months  ago)  could  easily  understand, 
least  of  all  Mrs.  Richard.  But  he,  Paul  Dalberg,  knew  him 
thoroughly — and  here  he  would  find  the  wife  casting  appre- 
hensive looks  at  this  'old  friend,  who  knew'  as  much  as  to  say: 
'Be  careful.  Knowledge  must  not  reach  me  that  way.' 

The  proverbial  curiosity  of  woman  accorded  ill  with  that  air 
she  more  than  once  had  worn,  of  appealing  to  Paul  to  keep  the 
Past  at  bay.  '  Of  course  it's  an  attitude,'  he  would  say  to  him- 
self, 'but  it's  not  a  bad  attitude,'  grudging  admiration  added. 

Her  marrying  Garth — had  it  been  effect  of  that  notorious 
sudden  weariness,  that  attacks  those  women  over-difficult,  and 
makes  them  at  the  eleventh  hour,  hurriedly  take  the  nearest  hand 
held  out?  Or  was  this  queer  marriage  a  mere  hasty  solving 
of  some  intricate  personal  question  in  which  Garth  was  only 
secondarily  concerned?  A  way  of  dulling  an  old  pain? — or  a 
satisfaction  to  some  new  pique?  He  had  observed  her  with 
Bertie.  But  the  amiable  Bertie  was  too  obviously  her  unre- 
garded slave.  Falconbridge!  Could  that  have  been  it? 

She  arranged  a  little  luncheon-party  for  the  week  after  her 
return.  It  the  last  moment,  not  without  misgiving,  she  included 
two  of  Garth's  scientific  friends.  It  had  gone  better  than  she 
had  dared  to  hope — thanks  a  good  deal  to  'the  dear  Brutons' 
and  to  Bertie. 

They  had  all  come  up  into  the  drawing-room  again,  and  during 
the  drinking  of  coffee  that  invariable  cleavage  had  taken  place, 
isolating  once  more  the  little  groups  that  a  deliberate  effort  had 
for  an  hour  fused  and  amalgamated.  The  Brutons  and  Peter- 
borough stood  talking  and  laughing  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
while  Katharine  with  every  aspect  of  absorption  in  Lord  Falcon- 
bridge's  account  of  the  effect  upon  the  country  of  the  Prime 
Minister's  speech,  was  covertly  lending  herself  to  the  surprise 
she  still  felt  at  hearing  her  husband  (sitting  on  the  sofa  between 
his  two  foreigners)  speak  by  turns  in  terse,  idiomatic  French  and 
Italian — 'quite  as  fluent  as  his  English,'  she  thought,  smiling  to 
herself,  'which  is  not  saying  much.'  There  was  for  her,  not 
merely  an  effect  of  strength  in  his  economy  of  speech — but  some- 
thing at  times  of  pathos  in  his  inarticulateness.  It  went  to  excuse 
his  delay  in  finding  those  particular  words  for  which  all  her  life 


352  A  DARK  LANTERN 

seemed  waiting.  Vividly,  too,  this  lack  in  him  contrasted  with 
her  own  facility  in  expression,  and  her  acquaintance  with  the 
equally  facile  in  artistic  and  in  social  life.  But  more  and  more 
to  his  wife,  herself  a  lover  of  words  and  a  juggler  with  them, 
Vincent's  bareness  of  speech  wore  an  effect  of  voluntary  absten- 
tion from  the  trivial  and  superfluous;  acquiescence  in,  even  a 
part  of,  the  great  universal  silence  that  greets  men's  larger  ques- 
tioning. With  words  we  may  unpack  the  heart,  but  fill  its  deep 
wells  never.  From  this  man,  at  least,  never  a  syllable  more  than 
just  enough  to  get  his  meaning  across  the  line  that  separates  from 
silence.  All  plain  and  bald.  Yes,  No,  Thanks,  and  Damn  you. 

Blanche  came  over  to  her,  and  Falconbridge  joined  the  three 
men.  'We  ought  to  go  away  early  and  let  you  rest/  said  Mrs. 
Bruton. 

'  Rest  ?    Nonsense. ' 

'You're  looking  rather  fagged.' 

'Hush.' 

'You  foolish  creature,  I  believe  you're  positively  afraid  of 
admitting  you're  tired  before  that  husband  of  yours.' 

Katharine  smiled.     'Well — perhaps  I  am.' 

'Why,  what  does  he  say  to  you?' 

'Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  his  saying  much.' 

'Heavens,  what  do  you  think  he  would  do?' 

'Put  me  to  bed  like  a  naughty  child  and  take  away  my  toys 
— not  let  me  see  a  letter,  a  paper,  a  friend  for  two  days.' 

'Is  that  what  he  threatens?' 

'He  doesn't  threaten.     He  will  just  do  it.' 

'Nonsense,  I'm  very  sure  he  wouldn't  go  such  lengths.' 

'He  has.     And  he  will  again  if  I  look ' 

'Are  you  nursing  your  baby  still?' 

'Yes.' 

'Oh,  that  accounts  for  it.' 

'Yes,'  Katharine  answered  gravely,  'that  accounts  for  it.' 

The  two  foreigners  came  to  make  their  adieux.  Katharine 
stood  at  the  door  saying  last  words  to  them.  Her  husband 
having  glanced  at  his  watch  shook  hands  with  the  others.  As 
he  was  in  the  act  of  following  the  last  of  the  two  strangers: 

'  You  aren't  going  ? '  said  Katharine. 

'Yes.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  353 

'Oh  no.    It's  so  early.' 

He  glanced  back  at  the  four  by  the  fire.  'You  don't  want 
me.' 

'Do  you  think  it's  very  nice  of  you  to  say  that,  the  first  time 
I  have  the  Brutons  and  Bertie  to  lunch  after  being  away  so  long  ? ' 

'It's  not  the  first  time  you've  had  the  other  man.' 

'Lord  Falconbridge ?  Oh,  he  invited  himself.  He  wanted 
to  show  me  a  paper  he's  written  on ' 

'Writes  too,  does  he?' 

She  smiled.     'Why  not?' 

'Politics  ain't  enough!  Well,  I  don't  blame  him  for  thinking 
so.' 

'I  don't  gather  that  that's  precisely  his  view.  Politics  are 
very  absorbing.' 

'You  seem  to  think  so.' 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  as  he  was  escaping.  'You  don't 
mind  Lord  Falconbridge  coming,  surely.' 

'Oh,  I  don't  have  to  talk  to  the  fellow.  You've  got  the  trick 
of  it?' 

'The  trick?' 

'If  he  was  a  man  of  science  now '    As  Vincent  was  again 

turning  away,  Wilfred  Bruton  strolled  towards  them. 

'I'm  in  the  act  of  telling  my  husband,'  explained  Katharine, 
'that  he's  dreadfully  narrow  about  the  worth  of  other  professions.' 

'Can  a  man  be  a  great  success  in  any  profession  he  doesn't 
somewhat  overrate?' 

'Oh,  I  overrate  mine,  do  I?    Thanks.     Good-bye.' 

They  laughed,  and  Wilfred  turned  to  speak  to  Falconbridge. 

'Oh!  Garth!'  Katharine  called  suddenly.  He  put  an  impa- 
tient face  in  at  the  door.  'I  did  ask  Sydney.' 

'What  did  you  do  that  for?' 

'Oh,  just'  (she  lowered  her  voice)  'to  have  your  friends  rep- 
resented too — and  not  only  by  a  couple  of  snuffy  savants.' 

'Those  are  the  two  most  distinguished  biologists  in  Europe.' 

'Yes,  yes,  of  course.  Still,  I  thought  it  would  amuse  you  to 
have  Sydney.'  He  frowned  and  she  added  hurriedly,  'I  want  her 
to  know  Lord  Falconbridge,  too.  Sydney  would  interest  him.' 

'Don't  agree  with  you.  Syd  isn't  his  sort,'  and  he  bolted, 
leaving  his  wife  to  demonstrate  that  she  was. 

23 


354  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Mrs.  Bruton  had  meanwhile  found  herself  growing  confidential 
with  Bertie.  '  She  must  loathe  his  people  and  most  of  his  friends. 

'Not  Professor  Paul,'  said  Bertie,  'and  I'm  sure  she  likes  the 
little  hunchback.' 

'Poor  Kitty.     She's  found  out  her  mistake.' 

'Mistake?'  he  echoed.     'Leonard's  an  awful  nice  little  chap.' 

Mrs.  Bruton  refused  to  follow  down  a  by-path:  'Kitty  ought  to 
have  married  you.' 

'She  didn't  think  so.' 

'She'll  find  this  a  very  different  London  from  the  London  of 
Peterborough  House.' 

'Well,  she  chose  this.' 

'Did  she?' 

'Why  do  you  say  that?' 

'Because  I  know  she  didn't.  He  hypnotized  her.  There's 
something  uncanny  about  that  man.  Don't  you  remember  the 
day  last  year  when  he  came  to  see  Freddy?' 

Bertie  nodded.  '  I  was  ridiculously  happy  that  day.  I  thought 
everything  was  going  so  smoothly.' 

'So  it  was,'  said  Mrs.  Bruton  with  unusual  emphasis.  'Then 
Vincent  came.' 

Bertie  looked  up,  wondering:  'Well.  He  went  up  to  see  Freddy 
and  he  came  down  again.  I  remember  perfectly.  Nothing 
happened.' 

'You  think  not?' 

'Why,  I  was  there.     She  didn't  even  speak  to  him.' 

'She  had  meant,'  said  Mrs.  Bruton,  sinking  her  voice  even 
lower,  'to  cross  to  Paris  that  night.' 

'She  did  cross.' 

As  Mrs.  Bruton  shook  her  head,  'What  do  you  mean?'  he 
demanded. 

'I  believe  Vincent  stopped  her.     I  know '     She  hesitated. 

'What  do  you  know?' 

'That  Natalie  went  to  Paris  alone.'  Mrs.  Bruton  rose  with 
the  sudden  remorse  of  a  woman  not  given  to  indiscretion.  Lord 
Falconbridge  was  saying  good-bye  to  Katharine  upon  the  ap- 
pearance of  Mrs.  Richard,  followed  by  Leonard  and  Sydney. 

'I'm  coming  along  with  you,  Mrs.  Bruton,  may  I?'  Bertie 
asked  with  a  preoccupied  air. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  355 

'Could  I  drop  you?'  interrupted  Falconbridge. 

'Will  the  new  toy  hold  four  besides  the  chauffeur?'  Under 
cover  of  Mrs.  Richard's  screaming  that  she  had  only  come  in 
for  a  second  to  bring  her  friend  Mrs.  Belderson  to  see  Garth, 
etc.,  etc.,  the  last  of  the  luncheon-party  melted  away. 

'Well?'  Wilfred  Bruton  faced  Falconbridge  as  they  all  stood 
outside  watching  the  chauffeur  do  mysterious  things  to  incite 
the  car  to  action.  'What  do  you  make  of  that?'  No  one  imag- 
ined he  referred  to  Falconbridge's  recent  acquisition. 

'Oh,  she  endures  the  fellow.' 

'What  do  you  think  made  her ' 

The  owner  of  the  car  turned  up  his  collar  with  a  superior  air: 
'Victim  to  that  common  weakness  of  woman — a  liking  to  look 
on  herself  as  a  tamer  of  wild  beasts.  The  wilder  the  beast  the 
greater  the  victory.' 

'And  when  the  time  comes  for  her  to  see  she  has  failed?' 

'Ah,  she  won't  like  that.' 

'I'm  very  grateful  to  the  beast,'  Mrs.  Bruton  said  as  they 
whirled  away — 'very  grateful  that  he  isn't  shutting  Katharine 
out  from  her  old  friends.  I  liked  him  better  to-day.' 

'He's  in  good  spirits  at  the  moment,'  answered  Falconbridge. 
'He  has  just  killed  an  epic.' 

'You  don't  mean  Katharine's  writing  an ' 

'I  said  an  epic.  We  have  just  one  poet  of  the  antique 
stature ' 

'Michael  Craven!    Yes,'  agreed  Wilfred. 

'In  the  middle  of  his  masterpiece,'  Falconbridge  went  on,  'in 
an  hour  of  depression  yesterday,  he  went  to  Vincent.' 

'Well?' 

'Of  course  Vincent  hasn't  the  dimmest  notion  of  what's  at 
stake — lays  the  Poet  on  his  back,  and  flings  his  pen  out  of  the 
window.' 

'Ah,  poor  Craven's  been  ill  for  a  year,'  said  Blanche. 

'He's  been  told  by  half  a  dozen  doctors '  began  Wilfred. 

'Pure  nerves,'  interrupted  Falconbridge.  'All  he  wanted  was 
a  tonic — and  to  be  kept  going  till  he'd  finished  his  magnum  opus.1 

'Perhaps,'  said  Blanche,  'Vincent  felt  it  more  the  doctor's 
business  to  save  the  man's  health  rather  than  his  book.' 


356  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Sheer  incapacity  to  appreciate  what  Craven  was  doing.  He 
was  telling  those  foreigners  to-day  that  he  went  to  Italy  once. 
Why  do  you  think  he  went  to  Italy?'  Blanche  laughed  and 
shook  her  head.  'He  heard  that  some  fellow  at  the  Naples 
Biological  Station  had  invented  a  new  stomach  pump.  He  went 
to  try  it — on  himself.' 

Mrs.  Richard  meanwhile  was  relieving  her  feelings  about  the 
perfectly  monstrous  way  Garth  had  treated  Mrs.  Belderson — 
wouldn't  look  at  her  because  it  was  'after  hours,' — such  a  great 
friend  of  ours,  too.  I  always  hoped — we  all  did,  didn't  we,  Syd  ? 
— that  marriage  would  civilize  him.  "Wait,"  you  remember 
my  often  saying,  "wait  till  he  gets  a  wife."' 

'You  hadn't  reckoned,'  said  Katharine  easily,  'on  his  marrying 
the  wrong  woman.' 

'Ohf    The  gossips  have  told  you ' 

'I've  been  told  nothing — by  gossips.' 

'I  see,'  said  Mrs.  Richard  acidly,  'you  only  mean  you  haven't 
the  courage  to  correct  his  manners.' 

Katharine  caught  Leonard's  eye.  'I  mean  I  haven't  the  desire.' 
Then  with  courageous  mendacity,  'I  like  them  as  they  are.' 

'Well,  I  wouldn't  admit  that  before  any  young  person.  It's 
a  poor  standard  to  set  up.' 

It  was  the  truth  in  the  observation  that  stung  Katharine.  She 
flushed  as  she  retorted :  '  If  any  person  old  or  young  can  make  as 
good  a  thing  of  his  life  as  Garth  has,  he's  in  luck.' 

Mrs.  Richard  uncovered  her  shining  teeth.  'And  you  never 
mean  to  tell  him  when  he's  being  outrageous?' 

Again  Katharine  sent  a  covert  glance  at  Leonard.  He  was 
listening  intently.  'You  don't  expect  that  a  swimmer,  struggling 
in  a  storm  to  save  a  life,  will  stop  and  make  fine  speeches.  Garth 
hasn't  time  or  strength  to  think  of  the  trifles  that  fill  our  lives.' 

'Trifles!  You  think  it  a  trifle  to Well,  7  don't  and  I 

shall  tell  him ' 

'I  wouldn't  trouble  to  do  that  if  I  were  you.  And  since  you 
ask  me  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think.'  She  stood  up,  and  in  the  eyes 
that  had  no  recognition  for  Professor  Paul,  standing  at  the  door, 
was  a  light  of  battle  that  no  one  there  had  ever  seen  before.  'I 
think,'  she  went  on  in  a  low  penetrating  voice,  'that  Garth  does 


A  DARK  LANTERN  357 

more  good  in  a  day  than  anyone  else  I  know  does  in  a  week. 
And  the  day  for  him  is  long  and  harassing.  When  he  once 
gets  inside  these  doors,  he  shall  have  peace  if  I  can  get  it  for 
him.' 

It  was  then  that  Professor  Paul  came  in,  and  relieved  the 
tension,  while  he  tacitly  supported  Katharine,  by  saying  that 
he'd  just  come  from  making  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  see 
Michael  Craven.  He  would  be  very  anxious  but  for  the  fact 
that  the  young  poet  was  in  Garth's  hands,  and  then  he  sat  down 
by  Sydney,  and  seemed  to  forget  everybody  else. 

'Don't  blame  me,'  said  Mrs.  Richard  aside  to  Katharine,  seem- 
ing to  feel  the  need  of  some  atonement.  '/  didn't  bring  her.' 

'Bring ?' 

'Syd.     I  found  her  in  the  consulting-room,  with  Garth.' 

'You  went  in!'  exclaimed  Katharine. 

'Yes';  then  half  apologetic,  'I  had  to  take  Mrs.  Belderson, 
you  know.  But  really  that  girl  ought  to  be  spoken  to.' 

A  dim  little  smile  crossed  Katharine's  face.  'Then  there's 
no  doubt  Garth  was  doing  it.' 

'It  was  bad  enough  before.  Buc  I  should  think  now  that  he's 
married ' 

Abruptly  the  hostess  left  the  room.  She  must  go  up  to  the 
baby. 

Mrs.  Richard  soon  departed,  but  even  after  Sydney,  restless 
and  absent-minded,  had  also  gone,  Paul  stayed  on,  trying  to 
forget  his  own  dissatisfaction  with  life,  in  amusing  Leonard 
for  half  an  hour.  Katharine's  absorption  in  her  baby  must 
make  a  rather  tragic  difference  to  the  little  cripple.  'Wouldn't 
you  like  to  play  something?'  Professor  Paul  asked. 

'Oh,  thank  you,  but' 

'But  what?' 

'Katharine  will  be  back  by-and-by.' 

'That's  all  right.    There  are  lots  of  games  three  can  play.' 

'But  you  see,'  Leonard  still  employed  the  direct  methods  of 
extreme  youth,  'Katharine  plays  better  when  nobody  else  is  here 
but  Stanley.'  j 

'Stanley?' 

'  Yes,  that's  me.  I  told  you  years  ago  that  I  was  going  exploring 
when  I  grew  up.' 


358  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Ah,  I  remember.' 

'It's  too  hot  in  the  tropics  to  walk,  you  know,'  Leonard  ex- 
plained a  little  hurriedly.  'I  dare  say  you've  heard  that  people 
— white  people — get  themselves  carried  about  in  the  tropics.' 

'Yes.     To  be  sure,'  said  Professor  Paul. 

'You  remember  the  picture  of  Stanley  with  his  native  bearers?' 

'I  can't  say  I 

'Well,  it's  a  good  deal  like  this,'  he  patted  the  arms  of  his 
invalid  chair.  'All  the  explorer  does  is  just  to  mean  to  get  there. 
There  are  plenty  of  people  to  do  the  carrying.' 

'I  believe  you're  right,'  said  Professor  Paul,  swinging  his  eye- 
glass. 'To  mean  to  get  there,  that's  the  main  thing.' 

Leonard  beamed  at  this  most  understanding  of  Professors. 

'We  practise  a  lot  here,  Katharine  and  I  do.  She  loves  it. 
Makes  me  awfully  sick  sometimes  when  I  remember  she's  only 
a  woman  and  can't  ever  do  the  real  thing.  But  we  practise.  I 
lie  here  in  the  long  thick  tangle  and  wait  for  game.  This  is  our 
jungle — when  everybody's  gone.  Katharine  does  the  roaring. 
Did  you  ever  hear  Katharine  roar?' 

'Yes,'  said  Professor  Paul  meditatively.  'I  did  once.  I 
thought  it  rather  good  roaring  too.' 

'Oh,  it's  splendid!  Makes  me  perfectly  cold,  so  I  can  hardly 
aim  straight.  That's  the  lion  I  shot,'  he  pointed  modestly  to  the 
big  skin  by  the  fire. 

'Ah!    I  shouldn't  care  to  have  met  him.'' 

'It  was  a  bit  awkward.' 

'But  you  want  a  tiger,  don't  you ?     Shall  I  be  the  tiger? ' 

'Well,  you  see,'  Leonard  hesitated.     'Lord  Falconbridge * 

Paul  laughed.  'What!  His  Pompousness  would  make  a 
better  elephant.' 

'He's  giving  Katharine  and  me  a  tiger — stuffed,  you  know. 
We're  hoping  it  may  come  this  afternoon.' 

'Ah!'  Professor  Paul  swung  a  meditative  eye-glass.  'That's 
how  he  does  it.' 

Five  minutes  later  Lord  Falconbridge  was  shown  in,  to 
Leonard's  excited,  'Oh I  Is  the  tiger  in  the  hall?' 

'Well,  no,'  returned  the  dignified  visitor.  'I'm  in  a  great 
difficulty  about  the  tiger.' 

'Oh,  dear ' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  359 

'You  see  there  are  two.  One's  a  splendid  fellow — so  big,'  he 
measured. 

'Hah!'  rejoiced  the  boy. 

'The  other's  smaller — about  so.' 

'That's  rather  little,  isn't  it,  for  a  tiger?' 

'Well,  you  see  she's  a  tigress  and  she  has  two  cubs.  They  go 
along  with  her  after  the  well-known  custom  of  cubs.  I  didn't 
know  which  would  be  best.  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  between 
their  respective  attractions.' 

With  a  grave  air  of  trying  to  help  his  Lordship  out  of  his  quan- 
dary, Leonard  repeated:  'Cubs!  Yes.  Cubs  would  be  rather 
splendid,  don't  you  think?'  politely  he  included  the  Professor  in 
their  deliberations. 

'I  think,'  said  that  authority,  'cubs  would  be  delightful.' 

' and  a  tigress,'  pursued  Leonard,  'is  always  fiercer  of 

course.' 

'Yes,  there's  that,'  agreed  Paul. 

Leonard  was  torn  between  conflicting  advantages.  'But 
how  big  did  you  say  the  tiger  was ? ' 

'About '     Lord  Falconb ridge  obligingly  measured  again. 

'I  think '  said  Leonard,  wrinkling  his  white  forehead. 

'No.  Yes.  It's  terribly  hard If  only  1  could  see  them 

before  we  decide.' 

'  Well,'  said  Lord  Falconbridge, '  the  car  is  here.  Wiiy  shouldn't 

we  all  go  and '  He  looked  round  as  if  expecting  an  addition 

to  the  company. 

'Go  now!'  exclaimed  Leonard.  'Go  this  minute?  And 
bring  back  whichever  tiger  is ' 

'I'm  afraid  we  couldn't  travel  with  Ine  tiger,'  his  Lordship 
confessed  with  an  air  of  such  regret  that  Leonard  felt  bound 
to  cheer  him  up. 

'Oh,  well,  never  mind  that.' 

'It  can  be  sent  later,'  said  Falconbridge. 

'Of  course.'  Leonard  leaned  on  his  elbow,  his  shining  eyes 
turned  to  Paul.  'Would  you  be  so  awf'ly  kind  as  to  ring  that 
bell  behind  you  ?  West  can  came  too,  can't  he  ?  And  of  course 
you  will!'  he  took  it  upon  himself  to  invite  the  Professor.  'Oh 
yes,  please  come  too.  Katharine  can't.  She  has  to  be  with 
the  baby.'  After  a  pause  he  took  the  two  men  into  his  confidence. 


360  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'I  don't  think  much  of  that  baby.  What  do  you  say?'  West 
appeared  in  time  to  save  the  company  from  indiscreet  admissions. 

The  incongruous  three  had  departed  on  their  tiger-hunt  when 
Vincent  came  in,  looked  round  as  if  he  too  were  hunting,  then 
dropped  heavily  into  a  chair  by  the  fire  and  sat  there  in  a  tired 
heap.  The  servant  appeared  and  made  up  the  fire. 

'Will  you  have  tea,  sir?' 

'No.'  After  the  hearth  had  been  brushed  up,  'Is  Lady  Vincent 
at  home  ? ' 

'Yes,  sir.    Tea  has  just  gone  up  to  the  morning-room.' 

'Who's  there?' 

'Nobody,  sir.' 

'Whose  motor-car  was  that  ?' 

'Lord  Falconbridge's,  sir.' 

Katharine  came  in  and  the  servant  vanished. 

'Garth,  come  upstairs.' 

'What  for?' 

'He  is  looking  such  an  angel.' 

Vincent  turned  his  head  away,  and  after  a  little  silence:  'You 
soon  won't  know  what  he  looks  like  if  all  your  visitors  stay  as 
long  as  Falconbridge.' 

'He  didn't  stay  so  long.' 

'Oh,  it  didn't  seem  long?' 

Katharine,  who  was  quite  ignorant  of  Falconbridge's  return, 
was  about  to  retort,  hesitated,  and  looked  narrowly  at  the  dark 
face  by  the  fire.  '  What  is  the  matter,  Garth  ? ' 

'Nothing.' 

But  his  eyes,  his  whole  Wesen,  contradicted  the  assurance. 
A  sharp  fear  took  hold  of  her.  Was  he  ill  ?  But  a  duller  woman 
than  Katharine  would  have  seen  he  was  in  no  mood  for  ordinary 
solicitude.  She  waited  a  while,  picked  up  a  book  and  pretended 
to  read — made  him  think  she  had  forgotten,  or  at  all  events 
ceased  to  observe  him.  He  sat  and  glowered  at  the  fire.  By- 
and-by  she  went  gently  over  to  him,  paused  behind  his  chair,  bent 
down  and  laid  her  cheek  on  his.  She  longed  to  speak,  but  kept 
her  lips  close  shut.  Presently,  her  reward.  He  drew  away,  but 
only  to  turn  on  her  eyes  full  of  dumb  suffering  like  a  wounded 
dog's — 'Craven's  dead,'  he  said. 

'Oh,  Garth  1'     She  was  at  his  side  now  on  her  knees.     'Oh,  my 


A  DARK  LANTERN  361 

dear,  I'm  sorry.'  The  look  in  his  face  again  arrested  her.  She 
felt  her  way :  '  But  the  other  doctors  said  recovery  was  impossible.' 

'Any  bungler  can  say  as  much  as  that.' 

'But  you  didn't  bungle.' 

'I  must  have.'     A  great  misery  was  in  his  face. 

She  stared  at  him.  This  was  the  other  side  of  the  shining 
shield  of  his  professional  life.  'What  would  you  do  differently,' 
she  whispered,  'if  Craven  were  alive  now?' 

'Nothing  different.' 

'Well — you  see!'  she  breathed  freer. 

'That's  only  to  admit  how  little  doctors  can  do  after  all.  It's 

that '  he  jumped  up,  brushed  past  her  and  began  walking 

rapidly  up  and  down — '  it's  feeling  so  powerless  now  and  then,  that 
makes '  he  drew  his  hand  round  his  head,  ruffling  his  hair. 

'Makes  what,  dear?'    She  had  risen  and  stood  looking  at  him. 

' makes  me  sick.'  He  flung  himself  down  on  the  sofa. 

'If  I  had  often  to  sign  a  death  certificate,  I'd  give  up  my  practice.' 

Poor  Garth,  if  it  came  often,  someone  else  would  be  perform- 
ing that  duty  upon  him,  thought  Katharine.  He  lay  quite  still 
with  hidden  face,  lay  so  long  motionless  that  she  hoped  his  ex- 
haustion had  merged  in  sleep.  She  brought  a  long  cloak  of  hers 
out  of  the  hall  and  covered  him  over.  Then  she  went  out  again, 
to  say  she  was  not  at  home.  What  she  most  longed  to  do  was  to 
say  that  he  was  not,  but  she  would  no  more  have  done  so  without 
his  permission,  than  she  would  have  read  his  letters.  She  knew 
he  must  live  his  own  life  in  his  own  way,  and  this  was  not  the 
first  nor  would  it  be  the  last  occasion,  wherein  she  could  only 
suffer  with  him,  and  not  say  much.  'Just  stand  aside  and  love 
him,'  she  admonished  herself.  By-and-by  he  would  feel  the  love, 
and  it  would  help  him — as  only  love  with  non-interference  can 
help  such  a  spirit. 

She  turned  out  the  electric  lights  and  only  the  fire  flickered  in 
the  room. 

By  an  effort  of  self-control  she  refrained  from  sitting  close  to 
him;  that  intelligence  of  love,  that  is  akin  to  genius,  told  her  that 
he  would  be  fretted  by  any  emphasis,  just  then,  of  sympathy  or 
tenderness.  But  when  he  could  rouse  himself,  when  he  should 
begin  to  wonder  where  she  was,  he  would  look  round  and  find 
that  she  had  been  content  to  wait  for  just  that  moment. 


362  A  DARK  LANTERN 

It  fell  out  a  little  differently  from  what  she  hoped.  Not  his 
own  unprompted  need  of  her  roused  him  out  of  his  wretchedness, 
but  a  call  to  action.  A  ring  and  a  double  knock,  followed  by 
Staines  opening  the  drawing-room  door,  and  standing  there 
astonished  at  the  absence  of  light. 

Without  raising  his  head:  'What  is  it?'  demanded  Vincent. 

'A  note,  sir.'  Staines  turned  on  the  light.  ' Could  you  possibly 
come  at  once,  sir?  They've  sent  their  electric  brougham.' 

Still  lying  there,  Vincent  read  the  note.     'I'll  come,'  he  said. 

'Very  good,  sir.'     Staines  went  out  and  shut  the  door. 

Vincent  leaned  on  one  elbow,  and  brushed  his  hair  mechani- 
cally with  his  hand.  He  stood  up,  letting  Katharine's  cloak 
fall  on  the  floor,  and  still  making  absent-minded  passes  at  his 
ruffled  hair,  he  walked  towards  the  door.  Suddenly  he  glanced 
round,  saw  Katharine  sitting  with  locked  fingers  at  the  fireside, 
face  upturned,  looking  at  him  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes.  In- 
stantly he  turned  away  again,  as  his  shy  or  surly  impulse  always 
was,  to  rebuff  or  to  ignore  the  open  proffering  of  sympathy.  He 
was  more  touched  than  he  would  have  admitted,  to  find  that  she 
had  been  there,  watching  with  him  through  that  long  dark  hour. 
But  it  was  not  in  him  to  say  the  word  she  longed  to  hear.  He 
gave  her  instead,  a  commonplace  travesty  in  the  phrase:  'Don't 
wait  for  me,'  and  went  out. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  the  weight  not  only  of  his  trouble 
fell  upon  her,  but  the  sense  of  love's  helplessness  lay  like  defeat 
upon  her  soul.  At  such  a  time,  at  any  crucial  moment,  one  stands 
solitary.  She  had  watched  with  him  through  his  evil  hour  and 
yet  he  had  been  alone! 

She  lifted  her  arms  suddenly  above  her  head,  and  let  them  fall 
impotent  in  her  lap,  and  let  the  tears  rain  down.  Through  her 
grief,  she  listened  to  hear  the  front  door  shut  behind  him.  But 
instead  she  heard  the  knob  of  the  drawing-room  door  turn  sharply. 
Vincent  came  in  dressed  for  a  cold  drive,  crossed  with  his  quick 
elastic  step  to  where  she  sat,  took  her  wet  face  in  his  hands  and 
kissed  her  on  the  mouth. 

'Thank  you,'  he  said,  and  went  out. 

He  had  never  done  such  a  thing  before,  as  stop  in  the  midst 
of  his  work  or  his  trouble  to  kiss  her. 

Then  she  had  helped  him. 


CHAPTER  V 

WHILE  she  sat  there,  Paul  Dalberg  put  his  head  in  at  the 
door.  'I  thought  I'd  just  look  in  to  tell  you  that  Falconbridge 
has  taken  Leonard  safely  home,  after  making  the  boy  his  slave 
for  life.' 

'Oh,  come  in,  won't  you ?' 

While  he  accepted  the  invitation  he  went  on:  'Leonard  thinks 
you  won't  sleep  if  you  aren't  assured  that  the  tiger  hunt  is  crowned 
with  success.' 

'It  is  good  of  Lord  Falconbridge ' 

'Yes,  isn't  it!'  replied  Paul  scoffingly.     'So  unselfish.' 

'Why  do  you  say  it  like  that?  You  ought  to  be  more  sym- 
pathetic, for  you've  been  rather  good  yourself.' 

'Oh  / '  he  waived  away  his  claim. 

She  looked  at  him  narrowly.  Easy  to  see  even  he  was  not  in 
the  best  of  spirits.  'Sit  down  a  minute,'  she  said.  'I  want  to 
tell  you  something.  I  used  to  be  sorry  when  you  came  while 
Mrs.  Richard  was  here.  I  shan't  be  any  more.' 

'Why  not?' 

'Not  after  the  way  you  took  Garth's  part  to-day.  But  I'd  like 
you  to  tell  me  one  thing.' 

Ah!  it  was  coming  at  last!     She  was  wanting  to  be  told. 

'Do  you  know,'  she  went  on,  'what  it  is  that  makes  him  so 
extraordinary  ? ' 

'How  extraordinary?' 

'Why  in  the  way  you  said  this  afternoon.  You  and  I  realize 
if  others  don't ' 

'Realize  what?' 

Sympathy  with  the  failure  to  keep  Michael  Craven  alive  made 
it  a  solace  to  her  to  say:  'That  he's  the  most  wonderful  doctor  in 
the  world.' 

363 


364  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'We  know  that  he's  a  wonderful  man,'  said  Professor  Paul. 

Katharine  looked  up  suddenly.  'You  aren't  telling  me  that 
you  don't  believe  in  his  skill.' 

'He  has  his  share.' 

'Only  that!'  Katharine's  tone  was  a  little  chilled.  'Then 
what  do  you  mean  by  his  being  wonderful  ? ' 

'That  he  has  something  more  than  skill.  You  see,  my  dear 
lady,  you  have  to  know  a  good  deal,  to  know  how  very  little  is 
known.' 

'About ' 

'The  internal  economy.' 

'You  don't  mean  that  Garth  doesn't  know!' 

'He  doesn't  know  more  than's  been  discovered.' 

'But,'  said  Katharine  doughtily,  'a  great  deal  has  been  dis- 
covered.' 

'Incredibly  little,'  said  Professor  Paul. 

'You  don't  mean  about  sickness.' 

'Just  about  sickness.' 

'I  am  sure,'  she  persisted  with  involuntary  childishness,  'Garth 
knows.'  As  Dalberg  smiled:  'You  think  he  doesn't?'  she  de- 
manded. 

'  Did  you  ever  hear  him  boast  that  he  did  ? ' 

'Oh,  boast.'' 

'Well,  did  you  ever  hear  him  so  much  as  admit  that  he  knew 
exactly  what  was  amiss — exactly  what  to  do  ? ' 

'I  can't  remember,'  said  Katharine. 

'Nor  anybody  else.' 

'But  he  must  know.     Look  at  his  record.' 

'His  success,'  said  Dalberg,  'is  undoubted.' 

'Then  how  do  you  explain  it?  You  don't  surely  think  it  is 
chance.' 

'Chance!'  the  Professor  laughed.  'Oh  no.  I  began  by  ad- 
mitting that  Garth  was  "wonderful."  He  does  brilliantly  what 
every  doctor  does  more  or  less  .  .  .  fills  up  the  lacunae  in  knowl- 
edge  '  he  paused. 

'With ?' 

'With  the  things  that  people  need  even  more  than  they  need 
health.' 

'What  does  anyone  need  more  than  health?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  365 

'Hope.'  Professor  Paul  got  up.  Suddenly  he  was  standing 
before  her.  'I  am  under  the  impression  that  you  don't  get  on 
with  Sydney  Ford.' 

Her  self-absorption  prevented  her  catching  the  champion- 
ship in  his  voice.  'She  isn't  sympathetic  to  me  personally.' 

'Oh,  isn't  she?' 

' and  I  don't  mean  to  pretend  to  like  her  specially.  But 

if  you  mean' — Katharine's  eyes  were  sparkling  suddenly, — 
'if  you  mean  am  I  jealous  of  Sydney  Ford,  no.' 

'Oh,  I  didn't  mean '  he  began. 

'Yes,  you  did.     But  isn't  this  a  digression  from  Hope?' 

'Well,  I  don't  know.'  He  sat  down  again  and  took  his  chin 
in  his  hand.  'It's  a  difficult  labyrinth  we  find  ourselves  in.' 

'  You  mean  life  ? ' 

He  nodded.  'It's  because  of  that,  Garth  scores.  Few  who 
aren't  glad  to  listen  when  a  man  says:  "Here's  a  way!"' 

'Now  you're  telling  me  that  my  husband's  a  pretender —  a 
quack  trading  on  ignorance.' 

'I'm  saying,'  persisted  Garth's  friend,  'that  he  gives  people 
what  most  of  all  they  need.  The  same  thing  takes  people  to 
doctors  that  takes  them  to  church.  It  was  no  mind  specially 
acute,  and  no  figure  of  speech  that  called  Christ  the  Great  Physi- 
cian— with  all  the  sick  world  ready  to  listen  to  the  one  who  should 
say  with  conviction,  "This  do  and  thou  shalt  be  saved."  The 
greater  the  conviction  the  greater  the  success.  Look  at  the 
Catholic  Church  and  the  Salvation  Army.  Those  two  cover 
the  widest  field  in  the  Western  world.  Neither  considers  any 
soul  beyond  the  reach  of  help.  From  the  opposite  ends  of 
society  the  weary  and  bewildered  go  gratefully  to  one  or  other 
to  hear  the  accent  of  conviction — to  be  reassured.' 

'Surely  what  honest  people  are  after  is  the  truth.' 

Slowly  and  a  little  wearily  Professor  Paul  shook  his  big  head. 
'Very  few  in  any  age  want  the  truth — even  if  it  could  be  found. 
What  they  want  is  cheer.  Whether  it  comes  out  of  a  bottle  or 
a  book,'  he  shrugged,  'what  matter?'  He  got  up  to  take  his 
leave.  'If  health  was  what  people  mainly  wanted  they'd  get 
it  without  going  to  the  doctors.' 

'  How  would  they  get  it,  Professor  Paul  ? '    Katharine  smiled. 

'By  observing  themselves  as  no  doctor  has  time  to  do.    But 


366  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Lord  bless  you,  health  isn't  the  main  thing,  so  Garth  and  the 
rest  are  kept  busy.' 

'You  think  you've  been  telling  me  news?'  demanded  Kath- 
arine. 

'Oh,  I  haven't?' 

She  shook  her  head.  'I  found  out  long  ago  that  Garth  was 
a  Black-Magic  Man.' 

'Exactly,'  said  Garth's  friend  with  a  seriousness  to  which 
Katharine  had  no  key,  'that's  the  secret  of  his  success.' 

It  was  the  last  confidential  talk  she  had  with  Paul  for  some 
time — and  still  she  was  too  absorbed  in  her  own  problems  to 
realize  that  what  she  had  said  about  Sydney  was  costing  her  a 
friend. 

She  missed  him  the  less  in  that  Falconbridge  had  fallen  into 
the  habit  of  coming  to  see  her  almost  daily,  and  was  often  re- 
ceived in  the  jungle  with  or  without  that  mighty  hunter  Leonard. 
On  the  rare  occasions  when  Vincent  looked  in  during  his  busy 
hours,  he  would  sit  a  few  minutes  quite  stolid  and  absolutely 
silent,  listening  darkly  to  the  talk,  like  one  having  slight  acquaint- 
ance with  the  tongue  yet  conscious  of  grave  need  to  follow  the 
conversation.  With  secret  wonder  he  heard  Katharine's  share 
in  it.  She  spoke  the  language  fluently,  understood  the  allu- 
sions, used  the  same  shibboleths.  Falconbridge  was  the  old 
life  embodied.  Her  life.  .  .  .  Vincent  was  a  stranger  there. 

A  mark  of  the  change  working  in  him,  a  sign  of  dawning  grace, 
though  it  came  so  greyly,  was  his  simple  facing  of  the  evidence, 
that  this  man — of  the  type  Vincent  wanted  to  despise,  secretly 
wondered  at,  vaguely  feared — this  man  was  the  obvious  com- 
plement of  Katharine's  life.  As  her  husband  compared  him- 
self with  Falconbridge  he  felt  his  own  rude  advantages  shrink 
out  of  sight. 

And  for  the  first  time  these  things  mattered.  When  he  came 
to  realize  the  chasm  that  others  felt  lay  between  himself  and 
Katharine — came  even  to  share  the  supercilious  man  of  the 
world's  wonder  as  to  how  the  chasm  had  been  bridged,  or  if  it 
really  were  bridged — that  was  to  be  'smitten  into  the  place  of 
dragons,'  that  to  be  'covered  with  the  shadow  of  death.' 

No  realization  visited  Vincent  of  the  fact  that  while  from  the 
lower  orders  of  creation  up  to  man,  love  rouses  a  great  longing 


A  DARK  LANTERN  367 

for  pre-eminence,  a  need  to  outshine  as  well  as  utterly  to  van- 
quish rivals — in  men  and  women  not  altogether  of  the  baser 
sort  love  brings  to  birth  a  power  to  make  the  only  atonement 
possible,  for  lacks  and  failures  impossible  to  forgive  ourselves. 

Those  who  truly  love  us  must  help  us  to  bear  our  own  un- 
worthiness,  for  this  is  the  thing  we  cannot  bear  alone. 

Not  until  we  get  beyond  the  ancient,  instinctive,  wish  to  dazzle 
eyes  that  are  dear,  by  our  fine  feathers  of  wit  or  beauty,  good- 
ness or  philosophy,  may  we  find  love's  highest  and  most  precious 
opportunity  in  helping  to  endure  the  absence  of  excellences  lost 
or  never  found. 

All  the  world  will  be  sorry  for  a  man  run  down  in  a  fog,  but 
who  will  sympathize  with  him  and  not  shrink,  if  groping  in  spir- 
itual twilight,  overtaken  by  untoward  circumstance  and  his  own 
soul's  weakness,  he  turn  coward,  lying,  mean?  Yet  what  maim- 
ing of  the  body  can  be  so  tragic? 

Are  we  dumb  when  we  should  speak?  Suspicious  when  we 
should  have  faith?  Rough  when  we  should  be  gentle?  That 
the  world  cannot  forgive  us  these  things  is  the  least  of  our  suffer- 
ing. We  cannot  forgive  ourselves.  We  cannot  forgive  God 
— unless  human  love  show  us  the  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil. 
Out  of  the  dark  that  gathered  about  Garth  Vincent,  out  of  his 
dumb  suffering,  came  no  better  thing  at  first  than  need  to  in- 
flict pain. 

And  of  that,  more  pain. 

Vincent  began  to  notice  that  now  when  he  came  in  during 
any  visit  of  Falconbridge's,  that  gentleman  would  forthwith 
get  up  and  take  his  leave,  with  calm  disregard  of  any  construc- 
tion that  might  be  put  upon  his  admission  of  the  fact  that,  how- 
ever much  he  might  have  to  say  to  Katharine,  he  had  absolutely 
nothing  to  say  to  Katharine's  husband. 

Once  Vincent  astonished  his  wife  by  asking,  after  Falcon- 
bridge  was  gone:  'What  do  you  two  find  to  talk  about?' 

'Oh,  all  kinds  of  things.  He  is  certain  there'll  be  an  appeal 
to  the  country  before ' 

Garth  interrrupted :  ' shows  you  his  "papers,"  I  sup 

pose,  and  you  show  him  yours.' 

'My  papers?' 

'  Your  poetry.1    The  old  contemptuous  accent. 


368  A  DARK  LANTERN 

He  was  miserably  jealous  of  those  new  poems  she  did  not  sho\s 
at  all  events  to  her  husband.  Why  didn't  she  show  them?  Had 
Falconbridge  inspired — was  he  in  them? 

'What  is  weighing  on  you,  Garth?' 

'What  should  weigh  on  me?'  he  had  asked  sharply. 

'  I  thought  perhaps  someone  was  very  ill — you  might  be  anxious.1 
Moodily  he  shook  his  head.  Mrs.  Richard's  voice  sounded  in 
the  wife's  ears.  But  Katharine  had  told  herself  that  in  explana- 
tion of  any  masculine  mood,  not  otherwise  accountable,  to  cry 
"cherchez  la  femme,"  was  the  impotent  way  of  such  women  as 
Mrs.  Richard,  asserting  their  sex's  questionable  power.  And 

yet The  black  wretchedness  in  the  face  of  the  man  at  the 

fire,  if  it  were  not  the  outcome  of  some  heavy  usury  exacted  by 
the  past,  surely,  surely  it  would  be  less  hard  to  share  with  sym- 
pathy such  as  hers.  Vaguely,  before  this,  she  had  met  the  pos- 
sibility of  his  bursting  out  one  day :  '  While  you  think  only  of  this 
child,  there's  another  I  cannot  forget.'  And  she  told  herself 
how  she  would  amaze  and  soften  him  by  saying:  'Bring  home 
the  other  child.' 

Now  he  had  lifted  his  head  and  seemed  fiercely  to  search  her 
face  for  something  he  expected  to  surprise  there.  Does  he  want 
to  tell  me?  thought  the  woman,  hoping.  Does  she  want  to  tell 
me?  thought  the  man,  fearing. 

When  Sydney  came  in  at  these  times,  Vincent  would  revive 
— ask  her  where  she  had  been  keeping  herself,  and  why  had 
she  not  been  in  the  Row  that  morning;  as  if  not  seeing  more 
of  her  was  all  his  quarrel  with  life.  No  eyes  for  anyone  but 

Sydney.  Almost  eloquent  in  approval  of  her  riding.  ' never 

saw  any  woman  at  her  best  on  a  horse  but  Syd.' 

Katharine's  only  sign,  her  being  a  little  more  pleasant  to  the 
'favourite  cousin' — who,  misunderstanding,  was  half  sorry  for 
the  wife — and  yet — there  was  this  sensation  of  flying  down  some 
steep  incline  and  not  being  able  to  stop  herself.  From  time  to 
time  the  girl  all  but  cried  out  to  Paul  Dalberg. 

Vincent  let  drop,  as  by  a  chance,  that  he  was  going  to  be  able 
to  get  away  to  Winston  this  week-end. 

Katharine  went  down  with  the  baby  by  a  morning  train.  Vin- 
cent arrived  worn  out,  harassed,  ready  to  flare. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  369 

When  she  had  given  him  tea  Katharine  got  up  to  leave  him. 

'Where  are  you  off  to?' 

'Only  upstairs.' 

'What  for?'  though  he  knew  perfectly  what  mother's  duty 
the  hour  brought. 

Katharine  had  glanced  at  the  clock.  'You  won't  be  lonely 
Sydney  is  coming  at  six.* 

'  What  if  she  is  ?    I  didn't  ask  her.' 

'No.    I  did.' 

'Why?' 

'I — I  thought  she  would  amuse  you.* 

He  turned  his  lowering  look  fiercely  on  her,  as  if  to  find  and 
challenge  any  weakness,  any  lying — or  may  be,  more  than  all, 
any  'martyr- nonsense.' 

But  Katharine  returned  the  dark  look  steadily.  'She  will 
stay  the  night.' 

Then  it  was  vaguely  he  realized  that,  although  he  would  have 
expressed  indignation  at  the  spectacle,  it  would  have  soothed 
this  growing  misery,  drugged  the  black  devil  in  his  breast  to 
have  found  Katharine  jealous.  He  would  not  let  her  go  till 
he  had  tried,  searched,  probed  her,  till  Katharine  had  said:  'Of 
course  I  felt  it  the  other  day  when  you  disappointed  me  of  my 
ride  and  took  your  cousin.' 

'You  could  have  come  too.' 

'It  is  hardly  the  same  thing.'  Hastily  she  added,  'With  any 
third  person.' 

'Then  why  do  you  ask  Syd  here?' 

With  an  effort  at  self-command,  a  sense  that  she  was  on  trial 
and  much  depended  on  the  way  she  acquitted  herself,  'I've  thought 
it  out,'  answered  Katharine.  'There  are  very  few  people  you 
care  to  be  with — my  friends  are  nothing  to  you.  Even  your 
own  very  little.  You  work  hard  and  you'  (she  looked  up,  smil- 
ing a  little  uncertainly)  'you  work  well.  You  deserve  relaxa- 
tion. Who  shall  put  it  in  your  way  if  not  I?'  Then  so  quickly 
as  to  sound  sharp,  the  words:  'I  have  faith  in  you,  you  know, 
or  I  couldn't.' 

This  was  not  what,  clumsily,  he  had  been  playing  for. 

'Humph.  You're  offering  me  Sydney  as  you'd  offer  a  baby 
a  sugar-stick.' 

24 


3-70  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Sh,'  said  Katharine  suddenly.     'There  she  is.' 

He  sat  glowering;  merely  nodded  curtly  when  the  girl  came  in, 
filling  the  quiet  room  with  her  loud  free  manner  and  cheerful  talk. 

Katharine,  rather  more  quiet  even  than  common,  was  en- 
tirely pleasant.  After  making  fresh  tea  for  the  visitor  she  was 
in  the  act  of  rising,  when  lo!  Garth  was  on  his  feet —  and  in  that 
way  of  his,  as  though  obeying  some  imperative  call,  like  a  flash 
he  was  out  of  the  room. 

'Where  are  you  off  to? '  called  Sydney,  setting  down  her  cup.  As 
the  only  answer  was  the  shutting  of  a  door,  she  turned  to  the  wife. 

'Perhaps  to  the  stables,'  suggested  Katharine. 

With  small  ceremony  Sydney  went  after  him. 

Katharine  sat  chin  in  hand,  staring  at  the  carpet.  Presently 
Sydney  tramped  in  again,  with  two  dogs  at  her  heels. 

'  Has  he  come  back  ? ' 

'No,'  said  Katharine. 

'Well,  where  on  earth  has  he  vanished  to?' 

'I  can't  imagine  unless  he's  in  his  den.' 

Sydney  marched  to  the  dingy  sanctum  where  even  Turk  knew 
he  might  not  go. 

The  woman  by  the  fire  sat  erect  holding  on  to  the  arms  of  her 
chair.  She  could  not  have  counted  ten  before  Sydney  reappeared 
in  the  hall  as  if  she  had  been  shot  out  of  a  cannon.  Garth  loomed 
behind  the  scarlet-cheeked  Amazon. 

'  Why,  how  should  I  know  I  wasn't  to  go  there  ? '  she  protested. 
'Katharine  suggested  it.' 

'Katharine!  You  sug —  '  he  seemed  about  to  advance  to 
the  arch-culprit  over  Sydney's  prostrate  form.  'Why  the  devil 
do  you  send  people  bothering  ?  By  God,  a  man  must  have  some 
place  to  himself.' 

Katharine  went  to  him  quickly,  gravely:  'Garth,  you  are  not 
to  speak  like  that.' 

'You  know,'  he  barked  rather  than  said,  'I  won't  let  any  one 
come  after  me  there.' 

'Why,  I  saw  Katharine  come  out  of  that  room  the  very  last 
time  I 

'Katharine!'  he  burst  out.  'What's  that  got  to  do  with  it! 
Katharine's  my  wife.' 

He  turned  and  fled.     They  heard  a  door  slam. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  371 

If  Vincent  had  come  to  have  no  doubt  to  the  appeal  that  Falcon- 
bridge  of  necessity  made  to  a  woman  like  Katharine,  Falconbridge 
was  wholly  without  understanding  of  Vincent's  hold  on  his  wife. 

She,  absorbed  in  the  problem  of  her  own  existence,  looked 
upon  her  almost  daily  visitor  as  a  pleasant  link  with  the  old  life, 
and  a  welcome  distraction  from  the  perplexity  of  the  new.  In  her 
heart-soreness  she  was  grateful  that  he  took  the  trouble  to  divert 
her.  Great  things  were  happening  in  the  world  outside.  The 
public  crisis  could  for  an  hour  make  her  forget  her  private  affairs. 

Yet  sometimes  talk  would  stray,  and  Falconbridge  being  there 
did  not  prevent  her  dropping  back  into  well-worn  channels  of 
thought.  Mention  had  been  made  of  a  man  and  woman  both 
had  known.  'She  was  not  in  love  with  Douglas  all  those  years,' 
Falconbridge  said  with  sudden  impatience.  'She  was  in  love 
with  love.' 

'I've  had  times  of  wondering,'  Katharine  replied  meditatively, 
'if  that  isn't  true  of  all  but  the  most  unhappy  women.' 

Falconbridge  eyed  her  curiously.  Weeks  ago  he  had  cast  the 
husband  out  of  calculation.  Not  that  he  pretended  to  guess 
why  Katharine  had  married  him,  but  the  more  he  saw  of  them 
both,  the  more  was  it  incredible  that  she  should  care  for  Vincent. 
Upon  that  firm  foundation  Falconbridge  was  proceeding  with 
some  skill  to  make  love  to  her.  Hitherto  the  skill  had  held  the 
other  element  sufficiently  in  check.  But  what  did  she  mean  by 
wondering  if  all  women  were  in  love  with  love,  'all  but  the  most 
unhappy  ? ' 

'You  are  not  the  most  unhappy?'  he  said  tentatively. 

'I?    Far  from  it.' 

Was  it  her  way  of  saying  that  in  spite  of  this  unideal  marriage 
she  cherished  the  ideal  still — still  was  waiting 

'Some  women,'  she  went  on  in  that  abstracted  tone,  'are  more 
thorough  about  it  than  others — that's  all  the  difference.' 

'More  thoroughly  in  love  with  love?' 

She  nodded. 

What  precisely  did  she  mean?  How  'thorough'  was  she 
prepared  to  be? 

'If  a  woman  is  in  your  phrase  so  "thorough"  that  she  goes  all 
lengths '  he  was  beginning  when  Katharine  interrupted. 

'If  she  gives  up  everything — and  even  if  she  gets  nothing  in 


372  A  DARK  LANTERN 

return,  if  she  has  ruined  her  life — all  the  more  she  must  be 
"thorough,"  all  the  more  she  must  hold  fast  for  ever  to  the  ruined 
happiness.' 

To  project  possibility  so  far  was  to  be  over-pessimistic.  Fal- 
conbridge  stroked  one  eyebrow.  'I  don't  know  that  I  follow 
you,'  he  said. 

'A  woman  may  come  to  think  she  has  paid  too  much  for  a 
thing  not  to  rate  it  high.  I  am  sure  there  are  people  (women 
at  least)  who  cling  to  love  not  so  much  because  it  is  love,  as 
because  it  is  justification.  All  the  same,'  she  added  quickly, 
'I  believe  there  is  validity  in  mature  passion.'  She  had  no  eyes 
for  that  in  his  face  to  which  unconsciously  she  had  given  name. 
'And  it's  because  there  is  something  in  character,  don't  you 
think,  that  makes  fitness?  Something  that,  no  matter  what 
happens,  lasts,  because  it's  the  essence  of  personality.' 

'I've  thought  so — lately,'  he  said. 

1 something  that  keeps  tenderness  alive,  even '  She 

caught  the  look  of  mystification  that  crossed  his  face — 'something 
that  makes  one  man's  faults  more  endurable  than  another  man's 
virtues.' 

Lord  Falconbridge  considered  the  proposition — but  really  she 
could  not  be  held  to  be  flattering,  this  analytic  lady. 

'In  the  very  young,'  she  went  on,  looking  back  along  her  life, 
'I  suppose  it  is  blood  alone  that  cries  out;  or  blood  plus  the 
attraction  of  some  glittering  outward  advantage. 

Ah,  he  had  caught  up  with  her  now.  Clearly  she  was  thinking 
of  Breitenlohe-Waldenstein. 

'Exactly,'  said  Falconbridge.  'It  is  only  later,  as  you  say ' 

He  was  about  to  take  her  hand,  but  dreamily  she  leaned  forward 
chin  in  palm  and  stared  into  a  bowl  of  roses  on  the  low  table  by 
her  chair. 

'In  the  maturer  spirit'  (how  grave  the  woman  was  he  thought; 
she  should  be  happier,  seeing  how  he  bent  and  gave  largesse 
with  his  eyes) — 'in  the  maturer  spirit,'  she  went  on,  'the  demands 
are  greater.  The  rewards  must  be  not  so  much  quite  other  than 
young  blood  asks,  but  those  and  others  besides.  A  case  with  us,' 
a  flitting  smile  made  the  face  in  some  way  even  sadder  than 
before,  'a  case  of  Sibylline  Leaves.  Each  tune,  the  woman  has 
less  to  offer,  each  time  she  demands  more.' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  373 

'I  will  not  hear  you  say  you  have  less  to  offer,'  he  said  tenderly 

She  half  roused  herself,  but  her  eyes  were  strangely  unseeing 
'And  the  man — what  if  he  does  balk,  mystify,  anger,  hurt  the 
woman ' 

'Oh,  come!  Not  as  bad  as  that!'  Lord  Falconbridge  dis- 
guised his  satisfaction.  He  was  not  easy  to  flatter,  yet  to  be 
assured  that  he  had  power  for  all  this  over  a  woman  who  had 
seemed  so  little  responsive — it  gave  him  an  unfamiliar  sense  of 
elation. 

'Better  so,'  the  low  voice  finished,  'than  absence  of  these  hurts 
and  presence  of  someone  else.' 

'You  can't  really  think  that  I  would  hurt  you,— his  hand 
closed  on  hers. 

While  Katharine  was  saying  '  You!'  the  door  opened  suddenly 
and  Vincent  stood  there. 

'Good-bye!'  said  Falconbridge.  Seeming  quite  unmoved,  he 
loosed  her  hand. 

The  man  exchanged  curt  greeting  as  the  visitor  passed  out. 
Vincent  went  away  directly  after.  'Called  out  of  town,'  was  all 
the  word  he  left. 

The  next  day  when  Katharine  allowed  the  nurse  to  go  out, 
she  told  her  to  leave  word  as  she  went  down,  that  if  Lord  Fal- 
conbridge called  he  might  come  up  to  the  nursery. 

What  an  extraordinary  message!  thought  that  gentleman. 
What  did  it  mean  ?  He  found  her  at  the  top  of  the  house,  sitting 
in  the  level  light  of  afternoon,  singing  the  child  to  sleep.  She 
did  not  pause  upon  his  entrance,  nodded,  pointed  to  a  chair,  and 
went  on  till  the  cradle-song  was  ended.  'You  wanted  me  to 
come  here?'  he  said  in  the  silence,  still  mystified. 

'If  you  wanted  to  see  me,'  she  answered  quite  low.  'But  it  is 
very  good  of  me  to  admit  you  to  my  holy  of  holies.  Few  people 
are  allowed  here.'  He  looked  round  the  pretty  white  room.  'I 
could  not  give  you  a  better  proof  of  friendship,'  she  added. 

'Of  friendship!'  he  echoed  irritably. 

'Exactly!  Of  friendship.'  The  child  stirred.  Very  softly 
she  began  a  new  lullaby. 

Vincent  had  come  back  close  on  Falconbridge's  heels.  No 
need  to  ask  who  was  there  with  those  horses  at  the  door.  Well, 
this  was  what  he  had  expected.  He  had  only  waited  for  this— 


374  A  DARK  LANTERN 

to  come  back  without  warning — to  make  certain  that  in  his  absence 
and  after  what  he  was  sure  had  passed,  Katharine  would  receive 
Falconbridge  again.  With  mounting  passion  he  went  from  room 
to  room. 

This  was  the  song  Lord  Falconbridge  had  told  her  was  'the 
best '  she  yet  had  made.  Yes,  his  critical  unwillingness  reaffirmed, 
as  the  cadences  fell  upon  the  quiet — he  had  been  right.  Motion- 
less he  sat  there,  insensibly  soothed  not  alone  by  the  singing,  by 
the  soft  purity  of  the  woman's  face  and  air  as  well.  The  picture 
ministered  to  the  man's  weariness  as  much  as  to  a  fastidious 
artistic  taste.  In  this  mood  he  liked  looking  at  her  much  as  he 
liked  the  Lippo  Lippi  Mary.  As  the  door  was  roughly  opened 
he  said  to  himself,  'And  all  wasted  on  this  uncouth  creature!' 
'Perhaps  not  often,'  he  consoled  himself.  'It  is  my  holy  place,' 
she  had  said.  She  looked  round  as  Vincent  came  noisily  in: 
'Hush!'  she  said.  'You'll  wake  him.'  But  there  was  an  unseen 
something  in  the  room  that  even  he  could  feel,  that  without  her 
words  would  have  sealed  his  angry  lips. 

He  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  Lord  Falconbridge  went  away 
and  left  the  two  alone  together.  But  Vincent  did  not  tarry  long. 
'No  time.  Pm  not  a  gentleman  of  leisure!' 

What  had  kept  him  away  these  four-and-twenty  hours  ?  What 
hidden  trouble  had  so  changed  him?  The  gentleness  and  care 
of  all  those  months  before  the  child  was  born  had  waned  untU 
they  vanished.  Besides  the  dark  preoccupation  in  his  thoughts, 
no  ears,  no  eyes  now,  no  interest  that  he  was  ready  to  own  outside 
of  his  profession.  His  life  was  flung  into  his  work,  as  a  Roman 
criminal  was  flung  to  the  lions — and  the  work  rent  and  tore  him. 
When  Katharine  would  remonstrate  at  some  bitter  flying  com- 
ment 'he  would  say  with  an  oath,  'The  rest  of  you  may  pretend 
if  it  pleases  you.  It's  my  business  to  deal  with  things  as  they 
are.  I  see  the  seamy  side  all  day  long.'  And  in  the  midst  of 
her  defence  of  the  'human  nature'  he  so  savagely  despised,  she 
came  to  dread  that  silent  laughter  that  seemed  to  shrivel  kindness 
and  to  blast  good  faith. 

Only  Mrs.  Richard  was  left  in  the  drawing-room,  one  day 
after  he  had  gone,  to  comment  upon  his  taciturnity.  Katharine 
spoke  of  possible  professional  worries. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  375 

'No,  a  mere  habit,'  Mrs.  Richard  assured  her.  'If  he  ever 
knew  how  to  talk  he's  forgotten.  One  can't  altogether  blame 
him.  All  those  years  his  life  was  not  the  kind  of  thing  he  could 
talk  about,  you  know.' 

'I  don't  know,  Mrs.  Vincent.' 

'Oh,  my  dear,  it's  absolutely  no  use  to  make  a  mystery  about 
it.  Anybody  must  know  that  a  man  like  Garth  didn't  live  like 
a  monk  all  that  time  before  he  married  you.' 

'Here's  another  reason,'  Katharine  would  say  to  herself,  'why 
people  should  marry  young.'  Instead  of  being  divided  by 
jealousy  of  the  days  unshared,  they  are  bound  by  common  mem- 
ories. Was  that  at  the  root  of  the  world's  ready  sympathy  with 
first  love?  Was  it  a  vicarious  shrinking  from  the  irony  of  the 
Past? — unwillingness  to  be  reminded  of  the  evanescence  of  the 
transfiguring  light,  dread  of  hearing  behind  the  new  vows,  echo 
of  the  old?  She  had  come  to  a  place  where  she  stood  straining 
her  ears  for  that  echo;  craving  pain  as  men  commonly  crave 
pleasure,  the  pain  of  hearing  from  his  lips  some  halting  hard 
confession,  that  out  of  past  disillusionment  should  bring  future 
peace. 

But  meanwhile  as  that  for  which  she  longed  showed  no  sign 
of  approach — that  which  instinctively  she  dreaded  most,  seemed 
to  be  coming  nearer. 

Insistently  evoked  by  this  one  and  by  that,  the  Past,  which 
day  by  day  should  recede,  growing  faint  and  ever  fainter  till  it 
was  faded  quite — this  Past  came  steadily  closer.  There  were 
times  now  when  she  held  her  breath,  feeling:  It  is  on  the  threshold! 
When  that  door  opens,  I  shall  know. 

One  morning  an  anonymous  letter  in  an  illiterate  hand.  The 
scrawling  signature  'An  unknown  friend'  sent  the  blood  to  her 
face.  This  was  the  way  people  heard.  She  read  a  venomous 
attack  upon  the  character  of  one  of  the  men-servants. 

As  slowly  the  hope  died  that  it  would  be  through  Vincent 
enlightenment  would  come,  she  tortured  herself  with  wondering 
under  what  guise  it  would  reach  her.  Would  the  door  bell  ring 
one  day  and  in  sweep  a  woman  for  the  orthodox  interview?  Or 
would  a  shabby  creature,  with  a  dark-eyed  child,  stop  her  in  the 
street  some  twilight  hour,  saying:  'Help  me.  I  was  as  much  to 
him  long  ago  as  you  are  to-day.'  Or  would  one  of  their  kind 


376  A  DARK  LANTERN 

friends  in  some  gay  gathering,  point  out — 'that  dashing  creature 
over  there.     See?     For  years  she  was  Garth's  chtre  amie.' 

No,  it  would  come  in  more  lurid  guise.  There  would  be  an 
awful  scene  of  some  sort,  and  the  past  would  be  avenged — not 
realizing  how  every  hour  vengeance  was  being  wreaked. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  a  curious  fact  that  Katharine's  self-absorption  had 
made  her  take  Falconbridge's  avowal  comparatively  lightly. 
He  had  made  a  mistake.  What  then?  Life  was  full  of  mis- 
takes. Would  they  were  all  of  as  little  consequence  as  this! 
Besides,  he  was  ill,  and  needed  the  friendship  he  had  seemed  to 
despise.  He  was  very  sensitive  about  letting  the  public  get  wind 
of  his  true  condition,  telling  Katharine  it  would  hurt  him  fatally. 
The  task  before  him  was  one  to  tax  the  strongest.  For  even  a 
whisper  of  doubt,  as  to  his  physical  ability  to  carry  through  the 
great  new  public  measure,  would  hamper  him  incomparably. 
The  situation  roused  Katharine's  sympathies;  she  knew  how  he 
had  fought  for,  waited  for,  this  moment.  The  Government  that 
he  had  so  successfully  undermined,  so  vigorously  attacked,  was 
toppling  to  its  fall.  The  ambition  of  his  life  was  on  the  verge  of 
accomplishment.  Any  day,  any  hour,  the  King  might  be  ex- 
pected to  send  for  him  to  form  a  Cabinet. 

Late  one  afternoon  Vincent  and  Dalberg  had  come  in  together, 
to  find  Katharine  sitting  alone  at  the  writing-table  in  the  drawing- 
room.  It  did  not  escape  Vincent  that,  as  she  greeted  them,  she 
laid  a  sheet  of  blotting-paper  over  a  half-written  page. 

'Where's  Falconbridge ? '  demanded  her  husband. 

'Falconbridge!'  she  echoed  in  some  surprise,  and  so  far  was 
he  from  her  thought,  she  stopped  to  think:  'Oh,  he's  gone  to 
Little  Matley.' 

'What  is  he  doing  at  Little  Matley?' 

'Staying  with  the  Brutons.'  And  upon  something  more  than 
common  equivocal  in  his  face,  added:  'Didn't  you  know  they'd 
taken  that  old  Manor?' 

'No.' 

377 


378  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Oh  yes,  some  time  ago.'  That  he  hadn't  heard,  how  it 
emphasized  the  long  absence  from  Winston!  He  never  wanted 
to  go  there  now.  There  was  a  pause  that  no  one  bridged,  till 
Dalberg  observed  in  the  tone  of  one  who  not  so  much  makes  con- 
versation as  manufactures  commonplace:  'Shockingly  ill  Falcon- 
bridge  was  looking  yesterday.' 

'  Did  you  think  so  ? '  said  Katharine,  carefully  wiping  her  pen. 

'Didn't  you?'  returned  Paul. 

'Oh,  he's  been  having  a  harassing  time  of  it  just  lately,'  she 
answered. 

'You  mean  you  don't  believe  the  man's  ill?'  demanded  her 
husband. 

'I  suppose  a  great  political  crisis  like  this  tells  on  a  person 
who  knows  he's  responsible  for  it.' 

Covertly  Vincent  watched  her  as  she  sat  there,  passing  her 
slim  hand  over  the  blotter,  and  then  withdrawing  it,  only  to  close 
the  white  vellum  book  in  which  he  knew  she  copied  out  her  verses. 
He  had  seen  the  book  in  Falconb ridge's  hands.  It  had  never 
yet  been  in  his  own. 

'What  are  you  writing?'  he  said  suddenly. 

'  O — a — some  notes  I  make  from  time  to  time.' 

'If  they're  only  "notes,"  let's  see.' 

As  he  spoke  she  was  snapping  the  patent  spring  fastening, 
that  was  so  disproportionately  massive  to  the  book.  'It's  a 
good  piece  of  binding.'  She  handed  him  the  locked  volume. 
He  flung  it  down  without  a  glance.  '  Giovanelli  of  Florence  did 
it  for  me,'  she  said,  as  though  she  had  not  noticed. 

The  key  of  the  book  dangled  from  her  bracelet. 

What  notes  were  these  'her  friend'  might  see,  but  not  her 
husband  ? 

While  Dalberg  went  on  perfunctorily  talking,  Katharine 
glanced  out  of  the  window  and  saw  Falconbridge  driving  up. 

'Oh,  he  didn't  get  off.  Here  is  Lord  Falconbridge,  after  all.' 
As  she  turned  round  suddenly  she  met  her  husband's  eyes.  For 
the  first  time  it  was  present  to  her  that  he  might  be  seriously 
jealous.  It  seemed  so  out  of  character,  that  she  ridiculed  herself 
for  the  idea,  and  yet  there  was  hope  for  them  if  he  could  be  so 
foolish  as  be  jealous.  How  should  she  make  sure?  Should  she 
tell  him  by-and-by  that  she  had  half  promised  Blanche  to  go  to 


A  DARK  LANTERN  379 

her  at  Little  Matley  for  the  week-end,  to  try  in  that  way  to  wean 
herself  (who  was  the  greater  baby),  and  how,  after  something 
Falconbridge  had  said  yesterday  about  seeing  her  at  the  Bruton's, 
she  had  changed  her  mind  ? 

No,  it  would  be  rather  stupid  of  her  to  talk  about  the  mis- 
take Falconbridge  had  made.  At  the  same  time,  she  would 
be  on  the  safe  side.  'Will  you  tell  Staines  to  say  I'm  not  at 
home,  Garth?'  she  said  from  the  door.  'I'm  going  upstairs.' 

'Falconbridge  has  not  come  to  see  you.'  Vincent  looked  at 
his  watch. 

'Not  come  to  see  me?'    She  paused. 

'No.' 

'To  see' — a  formless  uneasiness  seized  her — 'to  see  you?" 

'Oh,  I  have  my  uses,'  he  said  grimly,  as  he  nodded  to  Staines 
and  followed  the  servant  downstairs. 

In  that  room  where  many  a  life  or  death  sentence  had  been 
pronounced,  the  two  men  confronted  one  another  after  the 
examination. 

'Well,'  said  Falconbridge  in  a  hesitating  voice,  'I've  told  you 
what  is  involved.  Shall  I  go  on?' 

'  No ! '  said  the  other  with  the  sharpness  of  a  gunshot. 

Falconbridge  paled  to  the  lips. 

'You  mean  it  isn't  safe?' 

'I  mean  you  won't  be  able.' 

Falconbridge  steadied  himself  with  a  hand  on  the  writing-table. 

'  How  much  time  have  I  ? ' 

'At  the  rate  you're  going,  not  three  months.' 

'And  if  I  stop?' 

'If  you  stop — you  may  go  on as  long  as  other  people.' 

'If  I  stop  in  a  fortnight ?' 

:No!    If  you  stop  at  once.    To-day.' 

They  looked  at  each  other  while  you  might  count  five. 

'I  suppose,'  said  Falconbridge,  'you  advise  me  to  go  away.' 

'No,'  returned  the  other  sharply;  'I  advise  you  to  stop  work, 
late  hours,  excitement,  public-speaking,  strain.' 

When  Vincent  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  Dalberg  was 
alone  trying  over  some  music. 


380  A  DARK  LANTERN 

He  got  up,  lit  a  cigar,  and  waited  till  his  friend  told  him  moodily 
he  believed  he  had  stopped  Falconbridge  in  time.  He  would 
refuse  office.  Dalberg  looked  at  him.  'I  suppose  you  don't 
doubt  my  friendship,  old  man.' 

'Well,  go  on.' 

'Was  there  no  middle  course?' 

'Middle  course?' 

'A  course  that  no  one  could  construe  doubtfully.' 

'Oh,  construe  be  damned!  The  man  had  to  come  to  me  for 
the  truth!'  A  gleam  of  exultation  crossed  the  grim  face,  but 
it  went  out  with  the  last  word,  as  he  added:  'He  knew  I  wouldn't 
give  him — poetry  I* 

'It's  a  very  big  spoke  to  put  in  anyone's  wheel,'  said  Dalberg. 

'I  didn't  put  in  the  spoke,'  Vincent  answered  angrily.  'I 
only  told  him  it  was  there.' 

Dalberg  lowered  his  eyes  and  looked  at  the  end  of  his  cigar. 
'If  you  take  away  the  public  career  of  a  man  like  that,  you  leave 
him '  He  hesitated. 

'Well?'  demanded  his  friend. 

'You  leave  him  only  his  private' — he  lifted  his  eyes  and  met 
Garth's — 'his  very  private  interests.' 

Silently  each  man  held  the  other's  eyes  till  the  door  opened 
and  Katharine  reappeared. 

'You've  come  to  hear  the  news?'  said  her  husband. 

'What  news?' 

'About  your  friend.' 

'You  mean  Lord  Falconbridge?' 

'He  wanted  to  know  if  he  was  going  to  be  able  to  stand  the 
strain  of  office.' 

She  stood  waiting.  But  he  said  nothing,  the  sense  of  awk- 
wardness in  the  silence  became  unbearable — seemed  to  endow 
it  with  a  significance  to  which  it  had  no  right. 

'Well,'  she  said,  'what  did  you  tell  him?' 

'He  must  give  up  public  life.'  Failing  to  find  in  her  face 
what  he  seemed  to  search  for,  his  dark  look  wandered  moodily 
about  the  room.  'He'll  have  the  more  time,'  he  began,  hesitated, 
and  as  his  eyes  fell  on  the  locked  book — 'more  time  for  poetry,' 
he  ended,  as  he  got  up  and  left  the  room. 

And  then  she  knew. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  381 

Just  before  dinner  on  the  following  Monday  evening,  Vincent 
was  urgently  telephoned  for  by  a  patient  in  a  critical  condition. 

'Such  an  awful  night '  Katharine  would  have  dissuaded 

him,  but  his  face  was  all  the  answer  she  needed.  'At  least  you'll 
wait  to  dine?'  she  begged  him.  But  he  was  gone.  No  time  to 
put  off  Paul.  The  moment  he  appeared,  Katharine  felt  a  change 
in  him.  His  stiffness  had  suddenly  vanished,  leaving  him  in  a 
curiously  happy,  friendly  mood. 

He  told  her  stories  during  dinner,  and  promised  to  make  some 
music  for  her  after.  But  instead  of  doing  so,  when  they  were 
alone  again  in  the  drawing-room,  to  Katharine's  surprise  he  said 
suddenly,  out  of  the  blue: 

'I  think  you  dislike  me  rather  less  than  you  used.  Am  I 
right?' 

Instead  of  protesting,  she  answered:  'I  began  by  being  very 
anxious  to  like  you.' 

'You  succeeded  rather  ill  at  first,  I  gathered,'  he  went  on 
good-humouredly.  'Come,  now,  what  were  your  first  impres- 
sions? You  don't  dare  tell  me.' 

'I  thought  you  both  suspicious  and  insincere.' 

'I  gave  you  no  cause  for  that,'  he  said,  obviously  a  little  dashed. 

'Yes,  you  did.' 

'How?' 

'Unfortunately,  only  one  comment  of  yours  on  Garth's  mar- 
riage reached  me.' 

He  looked  at  her  a  little  anxiously.  'It  could  not  possibly 
have  been — I  liked  you  from  the  first.  Someone  maligned  me.' 

She  shook  her  head. 

'What  was  it  they  told  you  I  said?'  he  persisted. 

'What  you  said  was:  "I  wonder  how  long  that  will  last!'" 

'Oh — h'm!    It  was  a  common  speculation.' 

She  got  up  suddenly,  and  walked  to  the  window  and  back. 
'Those  two  questions:  Why  had  I  married  Garth,  and  how  long 
would  it  last!'  The  low  voice  rose  and  fell  unsteadily.  'You 
were  all  so  unbelieving,  so  suspicious  yourselves,  you  were  sure 
I  must  be.' 

'You  haven't  told  me  why  you  thought  me  suspicious.' 

She  stopped  suddenly  under  the  chandelier,  and  he  saw  why 
the  soft  eyes  shone  so.  They  were  brilliant  with  tears.  'If  you 


382  A  DARK  LANTERN 

have  forgotten,  I  haven't.  You  didn't  credit  me  with  caring 
much  for  Garth,  yet  you  fully  expected  me  to  be  jealous  of  Mrs. 
Richard's  sisters.  You  were  sure  I  would  be  afraid  of  Sydney 
Ford.' 

'Perhaps  not  of  them,'  escaped  him  as  it  were  involuntarily. 

She  caught  her  breath  and  went  on:  'You  expected  me  to 
interfere  even  with  the  old  custom  of  these  Monday  evenings. 
When  you  found  I  was  at  some  pains  to  keep  the  time  free,  you 
wondered  what  motive  I  could  have.  Always  looking  for  motives ! ' 
She  turned  away,  evidently  trying  to  master  her  growing  agita- 
tion, and  continued  her  restless  walk.  Dalberg  was  so  wholly 
unprepared  for  this  first  failure  on  her  part  in  self-control,  that, 
himself  a  little  nervous,  he  tried  to  stem  the  current  of  her  emotion 
by  an  innocent  jibe,  as  she  repeated,  a  choke  in  her  voice: 
'Always,  always  looking  for  motives.' 

'Haven't  you  heard  it  is  the  scientific  habit  of  mind?' 

She  turned  upon  him:  'The  simple  explanation  that  I  wanted 
my  husband's  closest  friend  to  find  no  excuse  in  the  new  wife 
for  slackening  the  old  tie — that  didn't  appeal  to  you  with  any 
special  force,  "Women  naturally  dislike  their  husband's  old 
friends  "—that  is  one  of  your  articles  of  social  faith.  Like  many 
another  who  isn't  subtle  himself,  you  are  afraid  of  the  quality 
in  others.  There's  nothing  a  man  like  you  expects  so  much 
from  a  woman  like  me,  as  subtlety.  You  were  mortally  afraid 
of  being  taken  in.  I  didn't  seem  so,  but  I  must  be  complex' — 
breathlessly  now  the  long-pent  torrent  poured  forth.  'You 
were  for  ever  occupied  in  translating  me  out  of  subtlety  into  plain 
English.  I  was  "artistic" — save  the  mark!  "Neurotic,  prob- 
ably," since  I  tried  to  write  poetry;  certainly  without  conscience 
or  loyalty,  since  I'd  lived  in  what  the  people  outside  it  call  "the 
smart  world."  It  was  incredible  that  I' — the  beauty  of  her 
face  was  suddenly  convulsed — 'incredible  that  I  was  a  simple- 
hearted  woman  who  cared  more  for  her  husband  than  for  any- 
body or  anything  in  all  the '  The  low  sound  went  out  sob- 
bing. She  turned  to  hide  her  face.  Paul  sat  dumbfounded. 

Without  looking  at  him,  her  veiled  voice  broke  again  upon 
the  hush  of  the  room.  'If  he  and  I  win  through,  we  will  not 
have  our  friends  to  thank!  Mine  always  ready  to  remind  him 
how  I  must  miss' — something  caught  at  her  voice  again — 'how 


A  DARK  LANTERN  383 

unfit  my  life  must  have  made  me '     She  covered  her  face 

with  her  hands,  but  still  spoke  on :  '  His  friends  for  ever  ready  to 
remind  me  of  his  "savage  and  unholy  temper" — those  are  his 
best  friend's  words,  Paul' — she  dropped  her  hands  and  turned 
sharply  the  arraignment  of  her  tear-stained  face  upon  the  'best 
friend'  sitting  there — 'all  of  you  for  ever  and  for  ever  reminding 
me  of — she  stopped  as  though  breathless  before  some  spectral 
danger  risen  on  a  sudden  in  her  path — '  reminding  me  of  that  Past, 
I  have  no  share  in.'  Something  in  her  face  appalled  him.  'The 
Past,'  she  repeated,  staring  straight  in  front  of  her  as  at  a  tangible 
terror.  'The  Past! — that  has  risen  from  the  grave,  wearing  still 
the  grave-cloth  on  its  face — more  horrible  for  being  unrecognis- 
able, veiled,  voiceless,  and  yet  for  ever  there.'  She  stood  so  long 
motionless,  with  wide  eyes  open  to  the  vision,  that  Paul  got  up, 
took  her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  to  the  sofa,  saying  he  knew  not 
what  halting  words  of  friendship  and  regret.  But  the  low  shak- 
ing voice  broke  in  again:  'You  and  otners  have  said  so  often. 
"How  long  will  it  last?"  that  we,  too,  have  begun  to  say  those, 
hideous,  defeating  words.  We  breathe  infection,  Garth  and  I.' 

She  had  said  good-night.  He  followed  her  to  the  door.  '  You 
were  happier  when  you  came,'  she  said  brokenly.  'I  am  sorry.' 

'I  wanted  to  tell  you,'  he  stammered,  'that — that  Sydney  and 
I  are  going  to  be  married  next  month.' 

She  turned  back  and  held  out  her  hand.  But  the  look  of 
suffering  in  the  face  that  tried  to  smile  brought  tears  to  his 
unaccustomed  eyes. 

It  was  after  this  first  open  acknowledgment  of  the  chasm 
that  seemed  to  be  widening  between  Garth  and  her,  that  Katharine 
asked  herself  dully,  in  the  exhaustion  that  followed  on  abandon- 
ment to  pain:  'Is  my  love  dead?  Has  he  hurt  me  so  much  and 
so  often  that  he  has  killed  it?  Even  so  I  must  justify  my  act.' 
And  the  feeling  gained  upon  her  that  it  was  only  right,  after  all, 
that  she  should  pay  this  price.  Let  better  women  refuse — she 
herself,  perhaps,  lacking  the  need  to  expiate,  she  might  refuse, 
calling  the  price  too  great.  But  she  had  broken  the  social  law, 
obeyed  the  prompting  of  the  blood,  and  at  peril  of  her  last  shred 
of  dignity  must  pay  the  price;  bear  with  him  and  for  him  to  the 
end — in  spite  of  anything  that  might  befall,  prove  the  some- 


384  A  DARK  LANTERN 

thing  better  than  mere  headlong  passion  that  had  flung  her  after 
him. 

#•*•**# 

'It  isn't  only  that  he  cries.  Look  at  him,  Garth.  He  isn't 
so  well.'  She  had  brought  him  the  child  in  her  arms,  to  hear 
him  scoff  away  her  fears! 

But  instead : ' No,  he  is  not  so  well.    You  must  stop  nursing  him.' 

'Oh  no — not  yet.' 

'To-day.    I  told  you  weeks  ago,  he  must  be  weaned.' 

'Oh  yes,  I  have  begun ' 

'It's  time  you  ended.' 

He  found  later  that  she  had  given  in  to  the  child's  wailing. 

'You  can't  be  trusted,'  he  said  stonily.  'I  shall  have  to  send 
him  away.' 

'Send  him  away!'    Was  the  man  mad?    But  he  nodded. 

'I  know  very  well  you  wouldn't  do  that,  Garth.' 

'If  I  did,  you'd  try  to  leave  me,  I  suppose.' 

The  'try'  set  her  nerves  obscurely  tingling.  Why  only  'try'? 
But  quietly  she  answered:  'No.' 

'You  would  if  I  went  too  far.' 

'No.' 

'You  would  if  you — came  to  hate  me.' 

'Not  even  then.' 

'Why  not?'  he  demanded,  with  as  much  harshness  as  if  another 
answer  would  have  pleased  him  better. 

'Because  leaving  you  would  be  to  degrade  the  Past.  There 
was  offence  in  it,  I  don't  deny.  But  it  is  redeemable  offence. 
Don't  be  hard  to  me  about  the  baby,  Garth.' 

'Redeemable.' 

'Redeemable  by  showing  I  was  right  in  my  feeling  if  not  in 
my  act.  If  I  was  wrong  about  the  strength  of  my  feeling,  I 
was  unpardonable  by  any  rule.' 

' By  God!  how  you  split  hairs! '  he  burst  out.  'You  mean  such 
notions  as  those  will  keep  you  to  your  bargain?' 

'Yes,  Garth.' 

'No  matter  what  I  do?* 

'No  matter  what  you  do.' 

Then,  at  the  worst,  he  would  not  even  have  the  enlightenment 
of  her  'trying'  to  leave  him.  Was  he  never  to  know? 


A  DARK  LANTERN  385 

There  was  one  way. 

He  had  taken  the  first  step  along  it  when  he  had  said  he  would 
send  the  child  away.  Very  well  had  he  come  to  realize  that,  in 
a  creature  like  Katharine,  except  love  lead,  there  is  no  power  to 
accept  the  greatest  nearness. 

If  he  made  the  move  to  re-establish  that,  and  she  rebuffed 
him 

All  his  life  leapt  up  in  a  flame. 

By  that  test  he  would  know. 


CHAPTER  VH 

WHEN  Katharine  came  home  after  lunching  out  that  Friday  she 
ran  up  to  the  top  of  the  house,  as  she  often  did  in  these  days 
upon  returning,  without  stopping  even  to  take  off  her  hat. 

The  pretty  white  room  was  empty. 

Where  was  the  baby?  Gone  with  the  nurse.  Where  was  the 
nurse?  No  one  knew.  She  had  packed  a  small  trunk  and 
vanished. 

Vincent  had  just  started  on  his  afternoon  rounds.  It  might  be 
hours  before  he  would  be  back.  Surely  there  was  only  one  place 
to  which,  on  such  short  notice,  he  would  send  the  child. 

There  was  barely  time  to  catch  the  afternoon  express  to  Win- 
ston. Hot  foot  and  full  of  anger  she  fled  to  Victoria.  Staines, 
promptly  carrying  out  orders,  telephoned  to  his  master  in  the 
next  street.  Vincent  re-appeared  with  Dalberg.  He  looked  on 
the  hall  table  as  if  for  something  he  counted  upon  finding. 

'Any  word  left?' 

'No,  Sir.' 

Quite  casually:  'Did  Lady  Vincent  say  where  she  was  going?' 

'She  told  the  cabman  "Victoria,"  Sir.' 

'Who  said  the  baby  was  at  Winston?' 

'I  don't  know,  Sir.' 

'Ring  up  a  messenger.'  In  the  consulting  room  he  wrote  out 
a  telegram  instructing  the  nurse  to  take  the  next  train  back  to 
town. 

Although  he  did  not  show  his  friend  the  message,  quite  as 
though  Paul  had  remonstrated,  Vincent,  looking  at  what  he  had 
written,  muttered  in  fierce  extenuation:  'Mothers  are  damned 
selfish! — disobey  my  orders — make  the  child  ill ' 

When  he  heard  the  bell  ring  he  picked  up  the  telegraph  form, 
and  made  for  the  door,  but  stopped  short  hearing  Mrs.  Richard's 

386 


A  DARK  LANTERN  387 

voice.  Sydney,  too!  Paul  went  into  the  hall  to  speak  to  them. 
Staines  came  for  the  message:  'Yes,  Sir,  the  boy  is  here.' 

As  the  servant  went  out  counting  the  words,  Mrs.  Richard's 
high  voice  penetrated  the  consulting  room:  'No — only  came  to 
leave  word  for  you,  Paul.  We've  just  been  to  your  house.  I 
knew  Katharine  was  away ' 

Like  a  flash  Vincent  appeared  at  his  door:  'How  did  you 
know  ? ' 

'  Oh,  you're  there — nursing  your  wrath  all  alone ! '  (She  laughed 
as  at  some  witticism.)  'I  heard  Mrs.  Bruton  arranging  it  on 
Wednesday.  Those  Little  Matley  week-ends  are  becoming  quite 
celebrated.  I  wish  she'd  ask  you  and  me,  Garth.  Very  well, 
Paul,  we'll  expect  you  at  eight.' 

Little  Matley.  So  that  was  Katharine's  post-haste  errand! 
Falconbridge's  too. 

When  Dalberg  rejoined  him,  Vincent  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  small  room  with  set  face  and  unseeing  eyes. 

'I  don't  in  this  case  see  the  motive,'  Paul  said,  'but  Mrs. 
Richard  doesn't  need  a  motive.  It's  easier  for  her  to  lie  than 
not  to  lie.' 

'It  is  to  most  people.     I  expect  them  to  lie.' 

'Not  all,  I  suppose?' 

'All  except '  Vincent  stopped  abruptly,  and  turned  to  his 

writing-table,  fumbling  aimlessly  among  the  papers  lying  there. 

'In  any  event,'  Dalberg  spoke  with  a  deliberate  lightness, 
'going  to  see  Mrs.  Bruton  doesn't  strike  the  onlooker  as  a  thing 
unforgivable.' 

'There's  one  thing  I  wouldn't  forgive '  said  the  man  at  the 

table,  crushing  up  the  analysis  paper  nearest  to  his  hand.  Paul 
looked  apprehensively  into  the  changed  face  as  Vincent  added 
half  to  himself,  'If  Katharine  should  lie  to  me ' 

Just  before  the  train  drew  up  at  Winston,  another  had  gone 
London  wards  bearing  back  the  child.  All  unconscious  Katharine 
passed  him  on  the  line,  finding  out  the  truth  only  upon  reaching 
the  house. 

Too  late  to  return  that  night. 

Nor  was  she  sure  that  she  should  find  her  child  in  Cavendish 
Square. 


388  A  DARK  LANTERN 

Ah,  he  was  very  cruel! 

A  wave  of  anger  carried  her  far  from  him.  Balked  emotion 
as  poignant  as  hers  will  sap  strength  like  a  disease.  Not  losing 
consciousness  till  dawn,  she  slept  on  till  nearly  noon.  A  noise 
in  the  room  roused  her.  Vincent! — flinging  down  a  travelling-bag, 
and  taking  out  his  watch  as  if  with  thought  of  train-catching.  And 
what  was  it  in  his  face — had  he  been  frightened  into  coming  for 
her?  Terror  drove  the  sleep  out  of  her  eyes;  half  rising,  she  said: 

'He  is  ill — my  baby's  dying!' 

'He  is  perfectly  well.' 

A  sobbing  little  appeal  escaped  her — 'not  .  .  .  not  crying  any 
more  ? ' 

'Not  a  whimper.' 

She  lay  down  among  the  pillows.  The  baby,  too,  had  ceased 
to  need  her! 

Garth  turned  his  back  upon  her,  opened  his  travelling-bag,  and 
was  flinging  out  his  things. 

Over  the  woman,  as  she  watched  him,  the  anger  of  the  night 
before  came  flooding  back.  She  wanted  nothing  but  the  child. 
Why  had  he  come? 

He  had  his  question,  too.  Without  turning  round:  'Why  did 
you  leave  like  that  without  telling  me?'  he  said  suddenly. 

Ah,  he  had  come  to  a  point  where  even  he  wanted  explanation. 

'You  know  one  reason  why  I  left  like  that.' 

'What's  the  other?'  he  said,  still  with  his  back  turned. 

'That  I  live  in  your  house  like  a  stranger.' 

He  was  at  the  wardrobe  now,  absorbed  in  collecting  his  riding 
things  and  taking  possession  in  the  old  way.  After  the  first  terri- 
fied misreading  of  his  haggard  looks,  she  had  not  seen  his  face. 
For  fear  he  might  suddenly  look  round  again,  she  turned  away  her 
eyes. 

His  presence  was  an  oppression,  an  intrusion.  As  she  lay 
listening  to  the  sound  of  his  quick  movement  about  the  room,  she 
found  herself  wishing  passionately  that  she  were  back  in  her  own, 
the  room  at  Cavendish  Square — still  more  that  one  at  the  top  of 
the  house  looking  out  upon  the  plane-tree  and  William  George. 
Within,  a  little  white Ah,  the  tears! 

This  man,  moving  about  with  the  sturdy  air  of  possession — he 
could  hurt  her  without  a  pang. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  389 

Not  only  her  eyes  avoided  him  now — she  turned  her  back  upon 
him,  and  looked  through  tears  out  of  the  open  window  to  the  great 
trees  where  a  parliament  of  rooks  was  met.  Remembrance  came 
back  upon  her  of  that  other  time — in  this  very  room,  too — that 
bitter  hour  before  Leonard's  coming,  over  a  year  ago,  when  she 
had  felt  that  her  misery  and  sense  of  alienation  must  needs  end 
in  her  going  away.  She  had  thought  then  that  her  suffering  was 
the  righteous  outcome  of  her  headlong  act — the  usual  ending  of 
a  story  such  as  hers.  But  certainly  marriage  had  not  closed  that 
avenue  to  pain.  Even  more  to-day  than  then,  she  felt  the  time 
was  come  when  to  be  with  him  on  the  old  terms  was  impossible. 
Fit  action  for  a  slave  or  a  cocotte,  who  must  disguise,  pretend, 
and  reckon  with  some  sordid  advantage  at  sacrifice  of  her  last 
shred  of  personal  dignity.  The  essence  of  the  beauty  of  this 
relation  was  in  the  perfect  heart.  There  must  be  no  bitterness, 
no  holding  back — nothing  between  them  but  love,  or  the  relation 
is  degraded,  and  would  show  tarnish  were  she  fifty  times  his  wife. 

Now  his  voice:  'You'd  better  get  up  and  go  for  a  ride.' 

'There  won't  be  time  for  that,'  she  said. 

'  Going  over  to  Little  Matley  ? '  the  question  rang  out  quick  and 
sharp. 

'No.' 

'You  won't  stay  cooped  up  here  all  day.' 

'No.' 

'What's  your  programme?' 

'I'm  going  back  to  town.' 

He  came  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  stood  there  looking  at  her, 
with  a  face  she  had  never  seen  before.  '  Don't  push  me  too  far,' 
he  said.  'If  you  did ' 

She  saw  the  slim  hands  working  on  the  top  of  the  footboard  in 
a  way  that  struck  her  as  strangely  horrible.  Her  heart  began  to 
beat  with  an  inexplicable  terror,  and  then  she  knew  why.  In 
imagination  she  had  felt  those  brown  hands  at  her  throat.  'If  I 
did  ? '  she  said. 

'I  don't  know  what  might  come.'  He  turned  away  and  strode 
out  of  the  room. 

A  sudden  light  now  upon  that  saying,  'If  you  should  try  to 
leave  me.'  She  knew  she  had  had  a  glimpse  of  the  old  violence 
that  the  world  was  said  to  be  outgrowing.  Was  the  world  out- 


390  A  DARK  LANTERN 

growing  it?  Or  would  there  be  always  men  of  hot  spirit  who 
would  not,  could  not  stop  to  count  cost? — who  would  go  head- 
long to  ruin,  dragging  others  after  ?  If  the  current  view  was  right 
and  there  were  to  be  no  more — then  was  this  the  last  of  that 
tempestuous  line. 

She  rose  to  meet  what  the  day  would  bring.  By  the  time  she 
was  dressed  she  had  come  to  see  that  she  could  trust  him  about 
the  baby.  He  loved  the  child.  And  after  what  he  had  said, 
still  more  after  what  he  had  looked,  she  would  not  go  to  town 
that  day.  She  looked  at  the  reminders  of  his  late  presence  in 
the  room.  Neither  could  she  stay  here. 

She  had  herself  driven  to  the  station,  and  told  Jackson  not  to 
wait.  A  cab  took  her  the  rest  of  the  way.  'After  all,  Blanche, 
here  I  am  for  the  week-end,'  she  said,  and  while  rapturously  her 
friend  welcomed  her,  'Are  you  a  large  party?' 

'No,  only  those  I  said — Bertie,  Lord  Falconbridge,  the  Chiltern 
girls  and  the  Scotts.' 

The  men  were  rejoining  them  unusually  soon.  But  it  was 
already  late,  for  the  women  had  sat  late  about  the  board,  pro- 
longing a  dinner  that  had  gone  with  uncommon  gaiety  and  spirit. 
Katharine  and  her  hostess  stood  looking  at  the  effect  of  the 
tapestry  newly  hung  in  the  upper  hall  as  the  men  streamed  up  the 
stair.  One  of  the  Chilterns,  Falconbridge  and  Bertie,  had  also 
joined  the  group  standing  before  the  faded  grace  of  the  old 
hawking  scene,  when  the  front-door  just  below  them  resounded 
to  knock  and  ring. 

'Garth!'  said  Katharine  involuntarily  under  her  breath  to 
Blanche. 

'What  makes  you  think ?'  demanded  Mrs.  Bruton. 

Katharine  had  drawn  back  a  little,  behind  Lord  Falconbridge — 
all  the  soul  of  her  in  quick  revolt  at  the  idea  of  a  scene;  at  the 
bare  possibility  of  these  particular  people,  among  all  people  under 
the  sun,  seeing  her  husband  in  the  nakedness  of  passion.  Better 
a  thousandfold  go  back  to  Winston  and  wait  there  for  whatever 
was  to  come. 

Under  cover  of  the  hum:  'Kitty,'  whispered  Blanche,  'some- 
thing's happened!' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  39! 

'I  had  forgotten,'  Katharine  answered,  in  the  same  undertone, 
'but  I  told  him  I  was  not  coming  here.' 

Mrs.  Bruton  looked  down  over  the  banisters,  and  made  the 
butler  a  sign:  wait.  Then  with  nothing  in  her  face  of  her 
dread  of  a  jarring  incident,  she  said  very  low:  'If  it  should 
be  he ' 

'It  is,'  returned  Katharine,  as  firmly  as  though  she  had  known 
all  along  that  he  would  stand  there  at  this  hour  knocking  at 
the  door.  'If  he's  angry  about  your  coming — or — anything 
— I  don't  think  Lord  Falconb ridge's  nerves  are  in  a  state  to 
bear ' 

'No — no,'  returned  Katharine  under  her  breath, — 'he  must  be 
told  he  will  find  me  at  home.' 

'But  you  won't  go!'  Mrs.  Bruton  went  forward  suddenly  to 
Lord  Falconbridge.  'I  know  you're  wise  about  such  things.  I 
wish  you'd  look  at  the  smaller  tapestry,  and  tell  me  what  you 
think.  Will  you  show  it  to  him,  Kitty  ? '  After  a  look  exchanged 
with  Blanche,  Katharine  moved  mechanically  towards  the  morn- 
ing-room. 

She  stood  with  Falconbridge  before  the  new  acquisition.  'Why 
are  you  so  pale  ? '  he  asked,  not  even  glancing  towards  the  tapestry. 
Before  she  could  answer,  'Ah!'  he  smiled  satirically.  Through 
the  door  they  had  left  ajar  that  unmistakable  voice!  Mrs. 
Bruton's,  answering  over  the  banisters,  albeit  so  much  nearer, 
not  half  so  clearly  distinguishable:  'Oh,  is  that  you,  Sir  Garth! 
Katharine?  I'm  sorry  to  say  she  refused  to  stay.' 

'Has  she  gone?' 

'Unhappily  for  us ' 

'Gone  where?' 

'Why,'  Mrs.  Bruton  sent  down  a  disarming  little  laugh,  'where 
should  she ' 

'She's  not  in  London.' 

'No,  not  London.' 

'Do  you  mean  she  has  gone  to  Winston?'  demanded  Vincent. 

'I  suppose  Winston,  of  course,  is  where  she ' 

'When?' 

'Oh — a — I  should  think  she'd  be  there  before  you  get  back.' 

Falconbridge,  imperturbable,  was  now  for  the  first  time  looking 
at  the  tapestry. 


392  A  DARK  LANTERN 

'Did  she  go  alone?'  The  voice  came  steadily  nearer.  He 
must  be  half-way  up  the  stair. 

'Alone!'  repeated  Mrs.  Bruton.  'Why — a — yes.  You  see, 
Wilfred ' 

'  I  want  to  see  Bruton,'  that  other  voice  struck  in,  quite  close  to 
the  door. 

'Then  come  into  the  drawing-room.' 

Katharine  thought  quickly.  He  would  not  only  not  find  her 
there,  he  would  not  find  Falconbridge.  She  turned  to  the  great 
man,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  anger  and  with  fear. 

'I'd  like  to  speak  to  Bertie  a  moment.  Would  you  mind ? ' 

As  plain  as  words  could  have  done  it,  she  asked  him  to  present 
himself  in  the  drawing-room,  and  quietly  to  let  Bertie  know.  As 
plain  as  words  could  have  done  it,  with  no  sparing  of  hauteur, 
Falconbridge  refused.  But  what  Falconbridge  said  was: 

'Mind?  Not  in  the  least,'  and  he  strolled  over  to  a  table 
where  stood  a  shaded  lamp,  picked  up  a  book,  and  idly  turned 
the  leaves. 

No  help  from  him. 

To  get  home! — before  humiliation  overtook  her. 

She  found  herself  hurriedly  crossing  the  room  to  the  door  at  the 
far  end. 

'You  won't  find  Amherst  that  way,'  said  Lord  Falconbridge 
coldly. 

'No,'  she  answered,  and  still  went  blindly  on,  conscious  that 
Falconbridge  was  leisurely  following,  some  distance  behind, 
through  the  little  passages,  up  steps  and  down.  When  she  came 
to  the  tiny,  old-time,  powder-room  she  went  in  and  looked  cau- 
tiously through  a  crack  in  the  blind.  One  of  the  Bruton  grooms 
was  holding  the  vicious  mare,  that  no  one  but  Vincent  dared  to 
ride,  let  alone  to  drive.  Then  he  must  have  wired  from  London 
for  the  dogcart  to  meet  the  last  train  to  Little  Matley.  It  would 
be  hard  to  beat  the  mare  home  at  the  breakneck  rate  Vincent 
allowed  her  to  cover  the  ground. 

Katharine  heard  Falconbridge's  steps  pause  at  the  powder-room 
door.  She  dropped  the  blind  guiltily,  and  rang  the  bell. 

He  simply  leaned  against  the  door  and  waited  till  a  servant 
came. 

'Has  Mr.  Bruton  got  a  motor-car  in  the  stables  here?' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  393 


'There  is  only  his  lordship 's- 


' Quite  at  your  disposal,'  said  Falconbridge  quietly,  'Tell 
Ferrier ' 

'I — I  should  be  glad  to  have  it  at  once,'  she  said  hurriedly, 
'at  the  garden  entrance.' 

•x-  *  *  *  * 

That  neither  his  wife  nor  Falconbridge  was  of  the  party  at  Little 
Matley,  that  seemed  now  to  be  what  he  had  gone  to  establish. 
But  they  were  together  somewhere,  and  Vincent  was  driving  along 
the  moonlit  lanes,  bearing  that  damning  knowledge  back  to  his 
forsaken  home. 

As  he  reached  the  high  road,  suddenly  he  reined  up,  listening. 
The  hollow  horn  of  a  motor-car  warning  some  late  prowler,  stray 
dog,  or  straggled  sheep — but  what  was  a  motor  doing  so  far  off  the 
main  highway,  down  there  in  the  old,  disused  grass-grown  road 
between  the  Little  Matley  gardens  and  the  water  meadows? 
Who  was  foolish  enough  to  ride  into  that  swamp  ?  He  stood  up 
in  the  dog-cart,  till  a  curve  in  the  lower  road  gave  him  a  glimpse 
of  a  light.  Yes,  some  lunatic  taking  the  old  coach  road  from 
Parminton  to  ...  where? — deliberately  passing  all  the  lanes 
that  would  bring  him  up  on  the  good  road.  What  fool  was  skulk- 
ing, and  bumping  along,  at  this  hour  of  the  night  from  Parminton 
to  Great  Matley? — Winston?  Like  a  match  struck  in  a  cave 
a  light  flashed  in  his  brain.  Had  Mrs.  Bruton  been  shielding  her 
friend?  Did  she  know  Katharine  had  been  to  Parminton? 
And  why  Parminton?  And  in  whose  car?  It  was  out  of  sight. 
He  sat  thinking.  What  better  thing  to  do  with  the  nightmare 
hours,  than  leave  the  cart  and  get  a  saddle  at  the  inn,  set  the 
mare  at  the  fences,  and  ride  cross-country  straight  as  the  crow 
flies,  through  the  Winston  Woods,  and  meet  that  erratic  motor 
where  the  old  road  joined  the  new — meet  it  and  see? 

When  Katharine  had  reached  the  garden  entrance  she  was 
thankful  to  find  the  motor  already  there;  but  two  figures  sitting  in 
the  car!  Not  Ferrier  alone,  Ferrier's  master.  Well,  what  did 
anything  matter  but  to  get  home,  and  to  get  home  quickly,  without 
passing  Garth  on  the  way? 

Not  yet  spent  was  the  wave  of  fear  and  anger  that  had  carried 
her  off  her  feet,  and  yet  dimly  she  began  to  see,  that  the  ebbing 


394  A  DARK  LANTERN 

of  that  tide  was  leaving  unsightly  wreckage  on  the  shores  of  her 
life.  Nothing  in  her  nature  was  stronger  than  her  sense  of 
loyalty;  yet — slowly  it  came  over  her  as  they  rushed  along,  that 
loyalty,  for  the  first  time,  had  suffered  disaster  in  the  storm. 

Falconbridge  talked  to  ears  that  heard  only  that  harsh  voice  on 
the  Little  Matley  stairs,  and  Blanche's  soft,  misleading  answers. 
Mistaken  as  it  may  have  been,  there  was  nothing  ignoble  in 
Garth's  coming  unexpectedly  for  his  wife;  no  offence  whatever 
save  in  her  way  of  meeting — or  not  meeting — his  demand.  She 
had  made  him  ridiculous.  She  clenched  her  hands.  Had  stood 
behind  the  door  with  people  that  he  hated,  and  heard  him  lied 
to!  Now,  again,  she  saw  Lord  Falconbridge's  sneering  look  of 
comprehension.  What  had  possessed  her  to  bear  that?  Why 
had  she  not  gone  out  and  said,  'I'm  here' — let  come  what  might? 
If  some  day  Garth  heard  the  truth —  She  shut  her  eyes.  She 
shut  her  ears:  saying  to  herself,  'I  have  been  patient,  but  now 
I've  forfeited  all  chance  of  profit  from  my  patience  by  an  act 
of  cowardice.  Oh,  how  much  more  potent  is  wrong-doing  than 
righteousness!  One  good  deed  cannot  save  us — one  bad  one 
damns  to  all  eternity.  In  a  moment's  baseness  I  lose  all  I  ever 
gained.' 

She  was  leaning  out  over  her  side  of  the  car  trying  to  distin- 
guish the  Great  Matley  lights.  How  long  this  old  way  was! — 
and  how  fast  the  mare  was  flying  by  the  shorter  road! 

'You  are  too  distressed  to  listen  to-night,'  the  voice  at  her  side 
was  saying.  'I  won't  pretend  that  I  don't  understand.'  Lord 
Falconbridge  put  out  his  hand.  She  thought  he  was  feeling  for 
the  rug  she  had  pushed  down.  'No,'  she  said;  'I'm  burning 
up!'  The  impatience  in  her  voice  gave  him  pause. 

'You  are  quite  unstrung,'  he  said  sympathetically.  'It  can't  go 
on  like  this.  Something  must  be  done  to  bring  a  little  happiness 
into  your  life.'  Again  his  hand  went  stealthily  seeking  hers. 

'Oh,  happiness!'  she  said,  with  an  accent  that  made  him  draw 
away.  Still  she  stared  out,  watching  the  road  in  front  of  the  fan 
of  light,  that  they  seemed  to  be  pushing  along  in  front  of  them. 

'Why  do  you  say  it  in  that  tone?'  he  demanded,  'as  though 
happiness  were  so  little?' 

'Certainly  I  no  longer  think  it  all,'  she  answered. 

'You  are  bravely  making  the  best  of  a ' 


A  DARK  LANTERN  395 

She  leaned  towards  him  for  the  first  time;  saying  almost  sharply: 
Don't  call  my  life  a  bad  bargain.  I  can't  allow  that.' 

'Ah,  you  pay  gallantly  the  dreamer's  penalty.  You  stand  com- 
mitted to  make  the  dream  come  true.  Or  failing — 

'If  I  have  failed' — she  interrupted  again  but  on  a  different 
note,  with  an  effect  of  both  humbleness  and  pride,  that  baffled 
Falconbridge — 'if  I  have  failed,  it  isn't  the  worst  of  failure.' 
Now  she  had  turned  away  her  head  again,  but  did  she  know,  for 
all  that  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  searching  in  the  gulf  of  blackness 
between  the  fan  of  moving  light  and  the  far  moonlit  distance — 
did  she  know  that  Falconbridge  leaned  over,  with  lips  almost 
at  her  ear?  Suddenly  she  clasped  the  ungloved  hands  in  her 
lap,  and  with  eyes  still  looking  for  the  Great  Matley  lights,  very 
low  she  said:  'I  cannot  in  my  mood  of  deepest  self-abasement 
believe  my  husband  would  have  found — less  unhappiness  with 
some  other  woman.' 

'But  you.     Great  Heaven!    What  of  you?' 

'I  would  rather  be  unhappy  with  the  man  I  have  chosen,  than 
happy  with  any  other.  Isn't  that  the  test,  after  all  ? ' 

'I  can't  pretend  to  understand.' 

'In  that  case — ah,  at  last!    You  see?    You  see  the  lights?' 

'No,  I  am  still  absolutely  in  the  dark,'  he  said,  and  his  well- 
controlled  voice  showed  by  contrast  all  the  sore  anxiety,  the  strong 
excitement,  that  throbbed  and  broke  in  hers. 

Instead  of  lessening,  her  agitation  seemed  to  grow  as  they 
rushed  through  the  silent  town.  She  leaned  forward  and  spoke 
to  the  chauffeur.  '  Couldn't  you  go  faster  ? '  On  they  flew. 

'Since  I  may  not  see  much  of  you  in  the  future,'  she  said  sud- 
denly to  Falconbridge,  '  I  think  I  owe  it  to — all  of  us,  not  to  leave 
you  with  misapprehension.' 

'Yes,  you  had  begun  to  say,  "in  that  case" — supposing  I  still 
fail  to  understand?'  His  cold  smile  was  like  an  insult. 

She  lifted  her  face  to  meet  the  wind,  and  when  she  spoke  it  was 
with  a  curious  hard  breathlessness,  as  one  who,  with  huge  effort  to 
rise  above  the  tyranny  of  nerves,  concentrates  all  her  being  upon 
bearing  faithful  witness  in  some  final  hour. 

'You  have  only  to  remember,'  she  said,  'that  in  these  matters 
there's  something  in  character  that  makes  fitness.  I  suppose  it  is 
only  after  character  is  developed — bent  this  way  or  that  by  the 


396  A  DARK  LANTERN 

prevailing  wind  blowing  through  one's  life — only  then  that  we 
know  what,  for  us,  makes  fitness.  And  I  grant  you  fitness  is 
as  mysteriously  made  as  joy,  which  you  know  (or  may  have  heard) 
men  have  found — delicate  women,  too — in  the  roughest,  pain- 
fullest  places.' 

He  left  her  at  the  door. 

She  looked  at  the  hall  clock  with  amazement.  After  all  they 
had  made  wonderfully  good  time.  Not  only  was  she  home  first,  the 
car  would  get  back  to  the  old  road  before  Vincent  could  meet  it. 

On  the  dressing-table  lay  the  white  vellum  book,  wrenched  and 
marred,  the  lock  broken  off. 

Well,  he  had  seen  the  Baby's  Songs — what  then?  Why  was 
she  trembling?  It  was  as  if  some  of  the  heat  and  tumult  of  the 
passion  with  which  he  had  torn  the  book,  lingered  yet  about  the 
ruined  thing  to  touch  her  with  contagion.  She  could  see  him 
doing  this.  His  bootless  errands  to  London,  and  to  Little  Matley, 
would  not  have  made  him  gentler.  Oh,  why  had  she  fled  away? 
She  might  have  known  it  would  only  make  things  worse.  'I 
must  keep  my  head,'  she  said  to  herself  as  she  hid  the  shattered 
book  in  a  drawer.  'I  may  have  to  save  him  from  himself  to- 
night. To-night?  No/'  her  nerves  cried  out.  'To-morrow. 
He  would  see  clearer  then.'  She  crossed  the  room  to  bolt  the 
door,  paused,  listened,  opened  it  cautiously,  went  out  and  stood  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs.  All  quiet.  She  went  back  and  rang  her  bell. 

'  Was  the  octagon  room  got  ready  for  the  nurse  ? ' 

'  Yes,  m'  lady,'  said  the  sleepy  maid. 

'Take  Sir  Garth's  things  in  there.  Ask  him,  when  he  comes, 
please  not  to  disturb  me.  I  hardly  slept  last  night.' 

'He's  gone  to  London,  m'  lady ' 

'Just  move  his  things — and  quickly.     I  am  very  tired.' 

For  all  that,  when  the  maid  at  last  was  gone,  and  the  doors 
locked  and  bolted,  Katharine  did  not  go  to  bed,  did  not  even 
undress.  She  turned  out  the  blazing  light,  drew  up  the  blinds, 
and  sat  by  the  open  window  facing  the  gate.  The  time  dragged 
leaden.  Surely  he  ought  to  be  back  by  now.  The  sleepy  maid 
would  be  giving  in  to  weariness.  He  might  not  get  the  mes- 
sage  

She  left  the  window  and  threw  herself  on  the  bed.  Vividly 
a  vision  of  him  stamped  itself  upon  the  dark,  Garth  as  he  had 


A  DARK  LANTERN  397 

stood  there  that  morning  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  his  quick  brown 
fingers  moving  in  that  horrible  way,  and  his  slow  lips  saying:  'If 
you  did — I  don't  know  what  might  come.' 

Hush!  was  that  a  horse  galloping?  'I'd  think  that  must  be 
Garth  if  I  didn't  know  he  had  the  dog-cart.'  While  she  listened 
for  wheels,  the  moments  passed. 

More  than  once  she  said  to  herself,  I  must  keep  my  head.  The 
sense  was  all  about  of  impending  horror.  She  sat  up  suddenly. 
Someone  was  moving  in  the  house.  Not  he,  for  she  would  have 
heard  him  driving  in  at  the  gate. 

The  handle  of  the  door  turned.    She  held  her  breath. 

'Open  the  door!'  he  said. 

She  had  meant  to  answer,  if  at  all,  quietly,  from  the  bed — 
but  the  voice  brought  her  to  her  feet,  carried  her  across  the  room. 

'Wait  till  morning,  Garth.' 

'Open  the  door!' 

Silence.  She  looked  at  the  bolt,  saying  to  herself  with  exultant 
terror,  that  it  was  strong.  And  still  as  she  stood  on  the  inside,  he 
stood  there  without,  waiting,  but  straining  to  send  every  sense 
through  the  barrier  between  them. 

The  woman  holding  her  breath  on  the  other  side,  felt  as  if  those 
fierce  eyes  were  forcing  sight  through  the  fibres  of  the  wood.  The 
sound  of  his  breathing  came  to  her.  Every  nerve  in  her  body  was 
conscious  of  the  intensity  of  his  listening. 

'Open  the  door  or  I'll ' 

She  recoiled,  and  waited  rooted  there,  till  she  heard  his  quick 
step  going  down  the  corridor.  Thank  God!  She  turned  up  the 
light,  and  with  uncertain  fingers  felt  for  the  clasp  of  her  necklace. 
At  that  instant  the  dressing-room  door  was  tried — was  shaken. 

'I  shall  not  open  the  door  till  morning ' 

Before  the  words  were  fairly  out,  a  great  noise  burst  upon  the 
quiet.  That  sole  barrier  between  her  and  what  was  to  come,  the 
solid  door,  shivered  and  cried  out.  A  sound  of  crashing  and 
splintering  followed  hard — a  sound  to  her  shrinking  nerves  as  if 
the  very  foundations  of  the  house  were  being  broken  up,  and  as 
by  some  explosion,  scattered  to  the  winds  of  heaven.  With  that 
last  harsh  splintering,  the  second  of  the  lower  panels  gave  way. 
Vincent  had  stooped  and  was  coming  in,  head  lowered  like  a  bull 
red-eyed,  maddened.  He  did  not  advance  upon  her,  but  upon 


3p8  A  DARK  LANTERN 

the  other  door,  still  locked,  bolted,  chained;  and  now  his  eyes  were 
making  circuit  of  the  room. 

'  What  are  you  looking  for  ? '  she  said. 

He  came  close.  She  fell  back  before  his  advance,  until  ar- 
rested by  his  words,  for  the  words  were  like  a  cry  for  help.  '  Don't 
ever  do  it  again.  Say  what  you  like  to  me — but  don't  ever  lock 
me  out.  It  makes  me  see  red!' 

Her  fictitious  strength  was  suddenly  gone.  She  sank  into 
the  chair  under  the  light.  As  her  upturned  eyes  rested  on  his 
tortured  face,  something  strange  in  experience,  something  alto- 
gether new  seized  hold  on  her,  and  her  heart,  which  she  had 
hardened,  was  suddenly  like  molten  wax — for  looking  in  his  face 
was  like  looking  in  an  open  wound.  While  her  wide  eyes  filled, 
the  form  before  her  that  had  seemed  to  her  iron  and  granite  made 
man — slightly  it  swayed. 

'  Garth ! '     She  held  up  her  hand. 

A  ragged,  stifled  cry  came  out  of  his  lips,  and  he  was  on  his 
knees,  his  face  hidden  in  her  lap.  No  anger  of  his  had  ever 
seemed  to  her  so  terrible  as  that  torn  and  tortured  cry.  It  was 
like  some  convulsion  of  inanimate  Nature,  dwarfing  the  narrow 
human  experience,  beggaring  her  of  words,  leaving  her  trembling 
and  dumb.  That  cry  of  his  still  sounded  in  the  silent  room. 
It  lived  on,  long  after  it  had  left  his  lips.  It  cried  again  from 
the  cornice.  It  echoed  from  window  to  door.  She  held  her 
clasped  hands  shaking  to  her  breast,  looking  about  wildly,  as  if 
to  find  him  help.  Then  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  figure  crouching 
at  her  feet,  and  she  realized  him  kneeling  there  like  a  little  child, 
she  began  to  sob  softly  above  his  hidden  face.  So  often  she  had 
said  in  her  heart,  'If  only  you  really  loved  me,'  she  never  knew 
that,  bending  over  him  now,  she  said  the  words  aloud,  until  she 
heard  him  answering:  'It  is  because  of  that.  You  can  say  any- 
thing you  like.  Don't  lock  me  out.' 

'I  never  will  again,'  she  answered,  laying  her  cheek  on  his  hair. 

'Garth,  I  was  at  Little  Matley,  when  you  came  to-night.  I 
heard  you  asking  .  .  .'  Still  no  sign.  'Blanche  lied  because  she 
thought — she  knew,  I  was  afraid.' 

He  repeated:  'You  were  afraid?' 

'Oh  yes,  I  was  afraid.     I  am  afraid  now;  but  I  have  to  tell  you. 


A  DARK  LANTERN  399 

It  was  because  I  was  afraid  I  came  by  the  old  coach  road  in  a 
motor-car Lord  Falconbridge  brought  me  home.' 

'I  know  he  did.' 

'How  could  you  know?' 

'I  rode  through  the  wood.     I  saw  you  pass.' 

She  waited,  knowing  that  she  and  the  man  at  her  side  had 
skirted  disaster  close  that  night. 

'Please  tell  me,  have  you  been  jealous,  Garth?' 

'You  haven't  thought  much  about  me  of  late,'  he  said  in  dogged 
self-defence, — 'the  nearest  you  came  to  that,  was  to  think  of 
the  child.' 

But  although  it  was  so  untrue,  the  saying  shed  a  light. 

'  And  through  it  all ' — she  framed  his  face  between  her  hands — 
'do  you  mean  that  you  loved  me  through  it  all?' 

'It's  not  to  be  helped  that  I  love  you.' 

She  laughed  upon  the  edge  of  tears. 

'Oh,  Garth,  Garth,  there's  nobody  in  all  the  world,  but  would 
think  it  a  disaster  to  be  you  or  me — and  yet  how  do  they,  those 
people  who  have  lived  calm,  unshaken  lives,  how  can  they  be  sure 
of  each  other,  as  you  and  I  are  sure  ? ' 

But  he  had  no  more  words  to-night  than  common. 

'If  any  power  but  death,'  she  ended  softly,  'could  have  parted 
you  and  me,  we  should  not  be  together  now.' 

'No,'  he  said. 

'What  about  the  future?  when  the  black  moods  come  again — ' 
she  clung  closer  to  him. 

'They  won't — so  long  as  you  make  me  feel  I  am  near  to  you. 
And  that  no  one  else  is,'  he  added  fiercely. 

Ah,  she  was  to  take  care  of  the  Future. 

Involuntarily  she  said,  'And  the  Past?' 

That  term  for  him  seemed  strangely  contracted,  for  like  one 
confidently  calling  up  a  witness  on  his  side,  'Do  you  forget,'  he 
said,  'the  months  here  before  the  baby  was  born?' 

'If  I  have,  I  never  will  again,'  she  answered.  'The  Past'  for 
her,  too,  should  mean  that  tender  happy  time. 

After  all  these  months  of  waiting  for  him  to  speak,  after  being 
so  sure  that  her  love  must  inevitably  win  from  him  the  story  of 


400  A  DARK  LANTERN 

those  other  years — who  and  where,  and  how,  and  all  the  rest- 
now,  waking  beside  him  in  the  dawn,  it  suddenly  came  over  her, 
that  she  should  never  know  these  things.  He  would  love  her  well 
— of  that  she  was  assured — and  he  was  steadfast  unto  stubborn- 
ness. But  she  would  never  get  him  to  lift  the  veil.  And  for  a 
moment  the  thought  chilled  her.  But  the  late  realization  of  the 
truth  was  at  last  sun-clear.  He  had  none  of  the  artist's  reflex 
pleasure  in  contemplating  himself  in  pain.  His  way  was  to  damn 
the  circumstance,  and  then  do  all  he  could  to  forget  it.  Even  if 
he  remembered,  memory  would  never  get  so  far  as  speech.  If  he 
had  few  words  for  present  need,  he  would  have  none  at  all  for 
the  past.  All  these  weeks  in  London,  she  had  felt  the  barrier  of 
the  unknown  years  rise  between  her  and  him  high,  impassable, 
impregnable — and  for  a  while  the  barrier  had  shut  out  joy.  But 
only  for  a  while.  She  saw  by  the  light  of  the  new  morning,  that 
what  she  had  deplored  as  a  flaw  in  the  faith  that  she  hoped  to 
establish  between  them,  was  no  flaw  of  his  making.  It  was  a 
thing  essential,  inevitable — part  of  the  human  lot.  She  had 
thought  that  other  husbands,  close  to  their  wives  in  sympathy  and 
devotion,  told  them  their  past.  But  did  they?  Not  one  had 
told,  or  could  tell  everything.  To  any  but  the  least  sensitive, 
even  the  vaguest  reminder  of  these  things  set  the  nerves  jarring. 
And  yet  this  source  of  pain  lay  behind  every  marriage  made  late 
enough  to  be  founded  on  the  rock  of  proved  fitness.  Her  good 
fortune  it  was,  that  Garth  would  never  make  those  old  days  live 
again,  by  any  word  of  his.  They  seemed  the  more  securely  dead. 
They  were  as  if  they  had  never  been. 


THE  END 


T 


HE  following  pages  are  advertisements  of  other  volumes  in 
this  Series,  and  The  Macmillan  Standard  Library. 


The  Modern  Fiction  Library 

A  new  and  important  series  of  some  of  the  best  popular  novels 
which  have  been  published  in  recent  years. 

These  successful  books  are  now  made  available  at  a  popular  price 
in  response  to  the  insistent  demand  for  cheaper  editions. 

The  authors  include  such  well-known  names  as  : 

JACK  LONDON  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

ROBERT  HERRICK  WILLIAM  STEARNS  DAVIS 

H.  G.   WELLS  E.  V-  LUCAS 

RICHARD  WASHBITRN  CHILD  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 

ELIZABETH  ROBINS  Mrs.  ROGER  A.  PRYOR 


Each  volume,  Cloth,  12mo,  SO  cents  net;  postage,  10  cents  extra 


Burning  Daylight 

By  JACK  LONDON 

"  Burning  Daylight "  is  just  the  kind  of  a  story  that  Jack  Lon- 
don loves  to  write  —  the  story  of  the  struggles  of  a  strong  man 
in  a  world  of  strong  men.  Moreover,  it  is  a  story  which  he  has 
written  purely  for  the  story's  sake  —  he  does  not  preach  any- 
thing in  it.  This  fact  will  make  it  appeal  to  those  who  dislike 
to  have  their  socialism,  or  whatever  it  may  be,  mixed  up  with 
their  fiction.  "Jack  London,"  The  Springfield  Union  writes, 
"  has  outdone  himself  in  '  Burning  Daylight.'  "  The  book  gets 
its  title  from  the  hero  who  is  nicknamed  "  Burning  Daylight " 
because  it  was  his  custom  at  the  first  intimation  of  daylight  to 
rout  out  his  companions  for  the  day's  work,  so  there  would  be 
no  waste  of  the  daylight  hours,  or  in  other  words,  no  burning  of 
daylight. 

The  Reign  Of  Law        A  Tale  of  the  Kentucky  Hempfields 

By  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

"Mr.  Allen  has  a  style  as  original  and  almost  as  perfectly  fin- 
ished as  Hawthorne's,  and  he  has  also  Hawthorne's  fondness  for 
spiritual  suggestions  that  make  all  his  stories  rich  in  the  quali- 
ties that  are  lacking  in  so  many  novels  of  the  period."  —  San 
Francisco  Chronicle. 

3 


THE  MODERN  FICTION  LIBRARY  —  Continued 


Kings  in  Exile 

By  CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 

" '  Kings  in  Exile,'  a  book  of  animal  stories  by  Charles  G.  D. 
Roberts,  is  a  series  of  unusually  fascinating  tales  of  the  sea  and 
woods.  The  author  catches  the  spirit  of  forest  and  sea  life,  and 
the  reader  comes  to  have  a  personal  love  and  knowledge  of  our 
animal  relations."  —  Boston  Globe, 

A  Kentucky  Cardinal 

By  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

"  A  narrative,  told  with  naive  simplicity  in  the  first  person,  of 
how  a  man  who  was  devoted  to  his  fruits  and  flowers  and  birds 
came  to  fall  in  love  with  a  fair  neighbor,  who  treated  him  at  first 
with  whimsical  raillery  and  coquetry,  and  who  finally  put  his 
love  to  the  supreme  test." — New  York  Tribune. 

Elizabeth  and  her  German  Garden 

u  It  is  full  of  nature  in  many  phases  —  of  breeze  and  sunshine, 
of  the  glory  of  the  land,  and  the  sheer  joy  of  living.  Merry  and 
wise,  clever  and  lovable,  as  polished  as  it  is  easy  ...  a  book 
for  frequent  reading  as  for  wholesome  enjoyment." — New  York 
Times. 

The  Colonel's  Story 

By  Mrs.  ROGER  A.  PRYOR 

In  this  novel,  Mrs.  Pryor,  well  known  and  loved  for  her  charm- 
ing reminiscences  and  books  about  the  old  South,  has  pictured 
life  in  Virginia  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago.  The  story  she  has 
told  is  one  in  which  the  spirit  of  the  times  figures  largely ;  ad- 
venture and  romance  have  their  play  and  carry  the  plot  to  a 
satisfying  end.  It  would  be  difficult,  indeed,  if  not  impossible, 
to  find  a  fitter  pen  to  portray  the  various  features  of  Virginia 
life  and  culture  than  Mrs.  Pryor,  who  is  "  to  the  manor  born," 
and  was  raised  amid  the  memories  of  a  past  where,  until  the 
war  for  Southern  independence,  families  retained  their  social 
standing  and  customs  from  generation  to  generation. 
4 


THE  MODERN  FICTION  LIBRARY  —  Continued 


A  Friend  of  Caesar 

By  WILLIAM  STEARNS  DAVIS 

"As  a  story  .  .  .  there  can  be  no  question  of  its  success.  .  .  . 
While  the  beautiful  love  of  Cornelia  and  Drusus  lies  at  the 
sound,  sweet  heart  of  the  story,  to  say  so  is  to  give  a  most 
meagre  idea  of  the  large  sustained  interest  of  the  whole.  .  .  . 
There  are  many  incidents  so  vivid,  so  brilliant,  that  they  fix 
themselves  in  the  memory."  ...  —  NANCY  HUSTON  BANKS 
in  The  Bookman, 

Jim  Hands 

By  RICHARD  WASHBURN  CHILD 

"A  big,  simple,  leisurely  moving  chronicle  of  life.  The  one 
who  relates  it  is  Jim  Hands,  an  Irish-American,  patient,  honest, 
shrewd,  and  as  dependable  as  Gibraltar  itself.  .  .  .  The 
'heady'  member  of  Jim's  excellent  family  is  the  daughter  Kath- 
erine,  whose  love  affair  with  the  boss's  son,  Robert,  is  tenderly 
and  delicately  imparted.  ...  A  story  study  of  character  in 
many  lights  and  shadows  .  .  .  touches  of  sublime  self-sacrifice 
and  telling  pictures  of  mutual  helpfulness  and  disinterested 
kindness.  ...  In  its  frequent  digressions,  in  its  shrewd  ob- 
servations of  life,  in  its  genuine  humor  and  large  outlook  reveals 
a  personality  which  commands  the  profoundest  respect  and  ad- 
miration. Jim  is  a  real  man,  sound  and  fine."  —  Daily  News. 

A  Dark  Lantern 

By  ELIZABETH  ROBINS 

A  powerful  and  striking  novel,  English  in  scene,  which  takes  an 
essentially  modern  view  of  society  and  of  certain  dramatic  situ- 
ations. The  "  Dark  Lantern  "  is  a  brusque,  saturnine,  strong- 
willed  doctor,  who  makes  wonderful  cures,  bullies  his  patients, 
and  is  hated  and  sought  after.  The  book  has  the  absorbing 
interest  of  a  strong  and  moving  story,  varied  in  its  scenes  and 
characters,  and  sustained  throughout  on  high  spiritual,  intel- 
lectual, and  emotional  planes. 
5 


THE  MODERN  FICTION  LIBRARY  —  Continued 


The  Wheels  of  Chance 

By  H.  G.  WELLS 

"  Mr.  Wells  is  beyond  question  the  most  plausible  romancer  of 
the  time.  .  .  .  He  unfolds  a  breathlessly  interesting  story  of 
battle  and  adventure,  but  all  the  time  he  is  thinking  of  what  our 
vaunted  strides  in  mechanical  invention  may  come  to  mean. 
.  .  .  Again  and  again  the  story,  absorbing  as  it  is,  brings  the 
reader  to  a  reflective  pause."  ...  —  The  New  York  Tribune, 

The  Common  Lot 

By  ROBERT  HERRICK 

A  story  of  present-day  life,  intensely  real  in  its  picture  of  a 
young  architect  whose  ideals  in  the  beginning  were,  at  their 
highest,  aesthetic  rather  than  spiritual.  He  has  been  warped 
and  twisted  by  sordid  commercial  strife  until  "  the  spirit  of 
greed  has  eaten  him  through  and  through."  Then  comes  the 
revelation  of  himself,  —  in  a  disaster  due  in  part  to  his  own 
connivance  in  "graft," — and  his  gradual  regeneration.  The  in- 
fluence of  his  wife's  standards  on  his  own  and  on  their  family  life 
is  finely  brought  out.  It  is  an  unusual  novel  of  great  interest. 

Mr.  Ingle  side 

By  E.  V.  LUCAS 

Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas  early  achieved  enviable  fame  and  became  well 
known  as  the  clever  author  of  delightful  books  of  travel,  and 
charming  anthologies  of  prose  and  verse. 

When  "Over  Bemerton's,"  his  first  novel,  was  published,  his 
versatility  and  charm  as  a  writer  of  fiction  stood  fully  revealed. 
He  displayed  himself  as  an  intellectual  and  amusing  observer  of 
life's  foibles  with  a  hero  characterized,  says  the  Independent,  by 
"inimitable  kindness  and  humor." 

In  "Mr.  Ingleside"  he  has  again  written  a  story  of  high  ex- 
cellence, individual  and  entertaining.  With  its  quiet  calm 
reflection,  its  humorous  interpretation  of  life  and  its  delightful 
situations  and  scenes  it  reminds  one  of  the  literary  excursions 
and  charms  of  the  leaders  of  the  early  Victorian  era. 
6 


The  Macmillan  Standard  Library 

Each  volume,  Cloth,  12mo,  50  cents 


This  series  has  taken  its  place  as  one  of  the  most  important  popular- 
priced  editions.  The  "  Library  "  includes  only  those  books  which  have 
been  put  to  the  test  of  public  opinion  and  have  not  been  found  wanting, 
books,  in  other  words,  which  have  come  to  be  regarded  as  standards  in  the 
fields  of  knowledge  —  literature,  religion,  biography,  history,  politics,  art, 
economics,  sports,  sociology,  and  belles  lettres.  Together  they  make  the 
most  complete  and  authoritative  works  on  the  several  subjects. 


Notable  Additions  to  the  Macmillan  Standard  Library 


Bailey,  L.  H. 

THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  MOVEMENT  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

"...  clearly  thought  out,  admirably  written,  and  always  stimulating  in 
its  generalization  and  in  the  perspectives  it  opens."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

"  Concise  and  straightforward  to  the  point  of  bareness  in  its  presentation 
of  facts,  arguments,  and  plans,  its  every  sentence  is  packed  so  full  of  what 
the  author  thinks,  knows,  and  hopes  of  the  condition,  prospects,  and  possi- 
bilities of  rural  life,  that  the  volume  comes  as  near  to  being  solid  meat  as 
any  book  can  come."  —  New  York  Times. 

Conyngton,  Mary 

HOW  TO  HELP:     A  MANUAL  OF  PRACTICAL  CHARITY 

"  It  is  an  exceedingly  comprehensive  work,  and  its  chapters  on  the  home- 
less man  and  woman,  its  care  of  needy  families,  and  the  discussion  of  the 
problems  of  child  labor  will  prove  of  value  to  the  philanthropic  worker." 

French,  Allen 

HOW  TO  GROW  VEGETABLES 

"  It  is  particularly  valuable  to  a  beginner  in  vegetable  gardening,  giving 
not  only  a  convenient  and  reliable  planting-table,  but  giving  particular 
attention  to  the  culture  of  the  vegetables."  —  Suburban  Life. 

Hapgood,  Norman 

LINCOLN,  ABRAHAM,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

"  A  life  of  Lincoln  that  has  never  been  surpassed  in  vividness,  compact- 
ness, and  lifelike  reality."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Mr.  Hapgood  is  not  depicting  a  mere  model  here,  but  a  living,  awk- 
ward, fallible,  steadfast,  noble  man."  —  Boston  Globe. 

7 


THE  MACMILLAN   STANDARD   LIBRARY  —  Continued 


Hearn,  Lafcadio 

JAPAN :  AN  ATTEMPT  AT  INTERPRETATION 

"A  thousand  books  have  been  written  about  Japan,  but  this  one  is 
one  of  the  rarely  precious  volumes  which  opens  the  door  to  an  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  wonderful  people  who  command  the  attention  of 
the  world  to-day."  —  Boston  Herald. 

Lyon,  D.  Everett 

HOW  TO  KEEP  BEES  FOR  PROFIT 

"  A  book  which  gives  an  insight  into  the  life  history  of  the  bee  family, 
pointing  out  the  various  methods  by  which  bee-keeping  may  be  made  of 
increased  interest  and  profit,  as  well  as  telling  the  novice  how  to  start  an 
apiary  and  care  for  it."  —  Country  Life  in  America, 

McLennan,  John 

A  MANUAL  OF  PRACTICAL  FARMING 

"  No  better  adjective  can  be  used  in  describing  this  book  than  the  one 
included  in  the  title  "practical,"  for  the  author  has  placed  before  the 
reader  in  the  simplest  terms  a  means  of  assistance  in  the  ordinary  problems 
of  farming."  —  National  Nurseryman. 

Mathews,  Shailer 

THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  CHANGING  ORDER 
"The  book  throughout  is  characterized  by  good  sense  and  restraint. 
...    A  notable  book  and  one  that  every  Christian  may  read  with  profit." 
—  The  Living  Church. 

St.  Maur,  Kate  V. 

A  SELF-SUPPORTING  HOME 

"  Each  chapter  is  the  detailed  account  of  all  the  work  necessary  for  one 
month  —  in  the  vegetable  garden,  among  the  small  fruits,  with  the  fowls, 
guineas,  rabbits,  caries,  and  in  every  branch  of  husbandry  to  be  met  with 
on  the  small  farm.  —  Louisville  Courier-Journal. 

Valentine,  C.  S. 

HOW  TO  KEEP  HENS  FOR  PROFIT 

"Those  who  have  been  looking  for  the  reason  why  their  poultry  ven- 
tures were  not  yielding  a  fair  profit,  those  who  are  just  starting  in  the 
poultry  business,  and  seasoned  poultrymen  will  all  find  in  it  much  of 
value."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

8 


Other  Volumes  in  the  Macmillan  Standard  Library 


Addams,  Jane 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  YOUTH  AND  THE  CITY  STREETS 

"  Shows  such  sanity,  such  breadth  and  tolerance  of  mind,  and  such  pene- 
tration into  the  inner  meanings  of  outward  phenomena  as  to  make  it  a 
book  which  no  one  can  afford  to  miss.  —  New  York  Times. 

Campbell,  R.  J. 

THE  NEW  THEOLOGY 

"  A  fine  contribution  to  the  better  thought  of  our  times  and  written  in 
the  spirit  of  the  Master."  —  St.  Paul  Dispatch. 

Clark,  T.  M. 

THE  CARE  OF  A  HOUSE 

"  If  the  average  man  knew  one-tenth  of  what  Mr.  Clark  tells  him  in 
this  book,  he  would  be  able  to  save  money  every  year  on  repairs,  etc."  — 
Chicago  Tribune. 

Coolidge,  Archibald  Gary 

THE  UNITED  STATES  AS  A  WORLD  POWER 

"Justly  entitled  to  recognition  as  a  work  of  real  distinction  ...  it 
moves  the  reader  to  thought."  —  Nation. 

Croly,  Herbert 

THE  PROMISE  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

"The  most  profound  and  illuminating  study  of  our  national  conditions 
which  has  appeared  in  many  years. —  Theodore  Roosevelt. 

Ely,  Richard  T. 

MONOPOLIES  AND  TRUSTS 

"  The  evils  of  monopoly  are  plainly  stated  and  remedies  are  proposed. 
This  book  should  be  a  help  to  every  man  in  active  business  life." — Balti- 
more Sun. 

Haultain,  Arnold 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  GOLF 

"  It  is  more  than  a  golf  book.  There  is  interwoven  with  it  a  play  of 
mild  philosophy  and  of  pointed  wit."  —  Boston  Globe. 

9 


THE  MACMILLAN  STANDARD  LIBRARY  —  Continued 

Sidgwick,  A. 

HOME  LIFE  IN  GERMANY 

Smith,  J.  Allen 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  AMERICAN  GOVERNMENT 

"  Not  since  Bryce's  '  American  Commonwealth '  has  a  book  been  pro- 
duced which  deals  so  searchingly  with  American  political  institutions  and 
their  history."  —  New  York  Evening  Telegram. 

Spargo,  John 

SOCIALISM 

"One  of  the  ablest  expositions  of  Socialism  that  has  ever  been  written." 
—  New  York  Evening  Call. 

Van  Dyke,  Henry 

THE  GOSPEL  FOR  A  WORLD  OF  SIN 

"  One  of  the  basic  books  of  true  Christian  thought  of  to-day  and  of  all 
times."  —  Boston  Courier. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  AMERICA 

"  In  this  work  the  fruit  of  years  of  application  and  reflection  is  clearly 
apparent;  it  is  undoubtedly  the  most  notable  interpretation  in  years  of 
the  real  America.  It  compares  favorably  with  Bryce's  '  American  Com- 
monwealth.' "  — Philadelphia  Press. 

Veblen,  Thorstein  B. 

THE  THEORY  OF  THE  LEISURE  CLASS 

"  The  most  valuable  recent  contribution  to  the  elucidation  of  this 
theory."  —  London  Times. 

White,  William  Allen 

THE  OLD  ORDER  CHANGETH 

"  Mr.  White  tells  in  the  trained  words  of  an  observer  about  the  present 
status  of  society  in  America.  It  is  an  excellent  antidote  to  the  pessimism 
of  modern  writers  on  our  social  system."  —  Baltimore  Sun. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

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